


Beautiful Something

by portraitofemmy



Series: open up your eager eyes [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 01, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aromantic Margo Hanson, Bisexual Quentin Coldwater, Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Depression, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Intercrural Sex, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Millennial Nonsense, No Beast AU, Non-Penetrative Sex, Parental illness, Pining, Queer Friendship, Queer platonic relationships, Rimming, Size Difference, Suicidal Thoughts, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 78,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: The problem with getting together two weeks before finals is that you barely have the chance to enjoy your new relationship before the semester is over.Set the summer between Quentin's first and second year at Brakebills, this is a story about discovering how to make space in your life for someone else. Told over the course of three months, our boys navigate distance, Ted's Illness, Eliot's thesis, and their own demons as they learn what it means to truly be together and apart.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: open up your eager eyes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1989295
Comments: 195
Kudos: 449





	1. June

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Eliot references a sexual history between himself and Margo, which is loosely based on [Hale and Summer's](https://bryonyashley.tumblr.com/post/139867473857/two-scene-stealers-eliot-and-margo) take on their early relationship. It's entirely off screen and mostly in the past, so I'm choosing to use the '&' tag for them.
> 
> This fic has been in the works for months, and I'm both insanely proud of it and terrified of sharing it. I can not possibly thank [propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous) enough for everything she's done to help make it a reality, from hand holding to structural work to being a final set of eyes on it. Thank you also to anyone who I've rambled to about this in the last three months, there are many of you. While this fic is not 100% complete yet, chapter two is drafted and chapter three has a partially-fleshed out skeleton. I just desperately needed to stop sitting on it and let it out into the world. 
> 
> I'd love to hear what you all think of it, so please drop me a comment if you feel so inclined! Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy it as much I have <3

The problem with getting together two weeks before finals is that you barely have the chance to enjoy your new relationship before the semester is over.

Granted, the end of the second semester was a lot less stressful for Quentin’s class than the end of the first. At least no one was getting turned into a goose and forced into some weird emotional bondage trust exercise. Less so for the second years. Eliot, it seemed, had been pinned down along with the rest of his cohort by Sutherland, and given a very serious lecture about spending the summer picking their dissertation topics. 

The retelling contained a lot of emphasis on ' _expanding magical understanding'_ and ' _broadening the depth of magical learning_ ', and Quentin can't honestly tell how much of that is an expectation that every graduating senior discover something new and how much is Eliot lowkey freaking out. Probably some of both. The thing with Eliot freaking out is that it tends to happen explosively and quickly and then get buried and aggressively not dealt with ever again. Quentin’s still trying to figure out how to navigate that. 

Seven months of friendship and three weeks of a tentative relationship haven't really been enough for Quentin's to get his brain around the quirks yet. And it's a tentative relationship only in that Eliot keeps looking like he's waiting for it to be snatched away from him, a little look of delighted surprise on his face every time Quentin settles into his lap or slips into his room. It only makes Quentin want to hold on harder, honestly, _prove_ to Eliot that he deserves anything he wants. 

It's kind of a miracle that one of the things he wants is Quentin, but he's not going to question it. He'd decided, the second that a hint of that want seemed serious, that it was worth fighting for. 

The problem is, well. Summer.

Eliot and Margo stayed on campus during the summer. This was, Quentin has gathered, a fairly rare occurrence, and reason both of them ended up as Dean Fogg's deputies a lot of the time. Sort of an unofficially work study, they got free run of the campus during the break in exchange for doing more or less what he told them to do most of the rest of the year. 

"I'm sure we could get him to let you stay too," Margo says yet again, three days before the end of the semester, the three of them gathered in her room to celebrate the last second year final being complete. "We're not just gonna be sitting here smoking weed all summer, either, we travel a lot."

"We will be sitting here smoking weed _some_ of the summer," Eliot whispers conspiratorially from where he's sprawled on the bed, head in Quentin's lap while Quentin's sits against the headboard in Margo’s mountain of pillows. Quentin grins down at him, carding his fingers through Eliot's soft hair. Head-in-lap is tacit permission for hair-touching, and Quentin’s going to make the absolute most of it, sliding his fingers through the soft black curls, the stiffness of product giving way under his hands. 

Margo’s sitting at her desk, sorting through papers and notebooks to celebrate the end of the semester by ritually burning. She is, at least, taking the time to pull out things she might want to reference later. Eliot had just dumped an entire semester's worth of work in a bag and called it a day. "Of course there will be _some_ of that, but we're going to Barcelona soon. Are you sure you don't want to stay, Little Q?"

"I'm sure," Quentin says quietly, watching his own fingers slide through Eliot's curls. "I mean, it sounds kind of amazing honestly, but– I want to spend some time with my dad."

The ‘ _While I still can’_ hangs unspoken in the air. Eliot hums a little, turning his head to rub his cheek affectionately against Quentin's thigh. "You can still come visit," Eliot points out. "Or travel with us, if you want. It's not an all or nothing proposition, baby."

Quentin swallows the little shiver of delight he gets every time Eliot calls him _baby_. "Yeah, I– will definitely visit. I don't want to not see you for three months."

"I don't want to deal with him not getting laid for three months," Margo says pointedly, bunching up a piece of paper and lobbing it with all her Welters expertise so it bounces lightly off Quentin's head. "So you fucking better visit."

"Love that my Bambi looks out for me like this," Eliot says with a sigh, and Quentin bites down on his smile, enjoying the feeling of being caught up in the little bubble of their world. He really is going to miss it, this feeling of belonging, of being welcome in their space. Margo and Eliot, who kept _everyone_ at a distance, had let him in. That’s never stopped feeling special. 

Quentin has one final left, but the truth is he’s been packed and ready to go for days. He’s not exactly constitutionally disinclined to living out of a suitcase, especially when he spends six out of seven nights sleeping in Eliot’s room, anyway. Just sleeping, sometimes, because Quentin’s spent his whole life being a shitty sleeper, but always a little less, if he’s got someone to share a bed with. Even less than that, it seems, if the person is Eliot. 

So Quentin’s been packed for a while. The books he wants to take back for the summer and his lightest weight clothes are tucked into his case and duffle bag and everything else is packed up and in storage, waiting for the end of summer. Being a rising second year means getting the chance to claim vacant bedrooms, before the new batch of first years get their disciplines assigned. It means he can, _finally_ , move out of the room over the kitchen, which pretty much always smells like whatever’s being cooked downstairs. Three quarters of a year of eggs and burned popcorn and curry and burned popcorn and pizza and burned popcorn and fucking– cinnamon apple cupcakes at 3am, _why,_ _Eliot, just why_ , was more than enough for him. There's a room opening up next to Margo, and well– maybe it isn’t as nice as Eliot’s room, the little bubble of safety up in the attic, a beaded curtain and a flight of stairs and a door away from everyone else. 

But it's not like he expects to be in his room a lot, anyway, so Margo will probably thank him for the quiet. And when he is in there, well. Margo on one side and Kady diagonally across and Alice down at the end of the hall, there were worse odds, when it came to feeling safe in a place. As long as– 

As long as he gets to stay here. Until some discipline presented itself ( _oh, god, please_ ) and he doesn't end up whisked off somewhere else. None of the other options seemed appealing, the Illusionists’ Mansion (“ _They have the_ tackiest _parties,_ ” according to Margo) or the Naturalists Treehouse or in with the Healers in the infirmary where Quentin can live out his own personal nightmare of being in a hospital for the rest of his life. 

No, he really doesn’t want to leave The Cottage, with its eclectic bohemian clutter and warm earth tones, with _Eliot_ and _Margo_ and the other friends he’s managed to make this year, its little reading nook, and Eliot’s attic bedroom. He barely even wants to leave it for the summer, especially to go spend the next three months in _New Jersey_ , in the house he hasn’t exactly lived in since he turned 20, except–

_While I still can_ , right?

So Quentin participates in the ritual burning anyway, which mostly seems like an excuse to get drunk at a bonfire, but who is Quentin to question tradition. There's lots of wine to go around, first and second years mulling around the flames outside The Cottage, and being outside under the stars somehow alleviates the feeling of being trapped that Quentin usually associates with parties. Or maybe that's just Eliot, happy as ever to have Quentin in his space, but social, attention elsewhere until Quentin wants it. Eliot has a knack for making Quentin feel included without the pressure to perform some social role that he doesn't understand. He can just stand with one of Eliot's arms looped around his waist, head back against his shoulder, and watch the fire. Eliot's so tall, and his voice is such a deep soothing rumble, and Quentin didn't know how badly he wanted this but he does. He desperately, desperately does. 

_Three months_ of not seeing Eliot every day. Three months of not being able to kiss him, or crawl into his bed when sleep proves elusive, or bury an anxiety spiral in the weight of his arms. Even before everything, before other failed relationships and drunken kisses and bar-side revelations, being around Eliot had felt calming. Grounding. Safe. 

Quentin's going to _miss_ him. 

He's still staring absently into the fire when he becomes aware of the feeling of being watched, and focuses in enough to actually see Alice standing on the other side of the circle, watching him. Should he go talk to her? Things are still weird, more than a little, but they're going to be in this cohort together for the next two years. God, he hopes 'friends' might be on the table for them some day, he really does still give a shit about her. But as soon as she registers he's noticed her watching him, her mouth pulls into a small smile and she turns away, turning back into a conversation with an illusionist student Quentin doesn't know. Which tracks, honestly, she was getting tired of talking to him when they _were_ together, why would she want to talk to him now?

Like he can sense Quentin's mood taking a turn towards shitty, Eliot's arm tightens around his waist, nose pressing down into his hair. "Need another drink?" he asks, soft and private, and Quentin's stomach squirms a little. There's still a little bit of wine left in his cup, but Quentin swallows it easily, feeling the burn of alcohol in his throat.

"Would you look at that, I think I do."

Following him to the drink table is just an excuse to stay close, make the most of the few days they have together before Quentin disappears back into the muggle world. They end up sitting together on one of the scattered lawn chairs, sharing a single cup between them, bottle set at the side to refill it when they get low. Having Eliot's attention, his _focus_ , his smiles and his lovely hazel eyes all trained on Quentin is _a lot_ , it really is, and Quentin just wants to bask in it. They talk softly, into the small space between their bodies, until the tension becomes too much and then they're kissing, cup and bottle abandoned to make out under the stars, in the middle of a crowd. 

They disappear back into The Cottage before the party's over, but nobody seems to notice except Margo.

Eliot’s room in The Cottage feels like another world. Some of that is definitely magical, Quentin knows, silencing spells to keep their noise in and other noise out. But there’s a feeling to it, a warmth, which isn’t magic. It’s the candles on the surfaces and art on the walls, the soft squishy rugs on hardwood floors and the sheets, blankets, pillows on the bed, more comfortable than any dorm bed had a right to be. It’s Eliot, his personality made physically manifest into his space. It’s a little bit Margo and Quentin too, in the bits of themselves they’ve left here, Quentin’s books and Margo’s photographs.

He’s going to miss this so much, he thinks, as he stands at the foot of Eliot's bed, looking around. This little bubble of safety, a place to hide. He’s looking fondly at the pictures on Eliot’s desk, the Margo-Quentin-Eliot-Alice-Kady of it all. _Physical kids_. He can feel it when Eliot moves up behind him, the weight of his presence is almost enough to make Quentin shiver even before Eliot touches his sides. Hands sliding up and down and then around to hug him, tug Quentin back against his chest a little. 

“You look sad,” Eliot says quietly, lips just against the shell of his ear, and now Quentin really does shiver. 

“Nah,” he sighs, leaning back into Eliot’s arms. _God_ , he loves this feeling, the strength in Eliot’s arms, the shelter of them. “Just thinking.”

“Mm, sometimes that’s the same thing with you,” Eliot points out, teasing a little, and well. He’s not wrong, really, is he?

“Not tonight,” Quentin promises, turning around so he can go up on his toes for another kiss, lips still tingling from before. Eliot hadn’t bothered to shave again before the party, and his 5-o’clock shadow prickles across Quentin’s skin, hot and exciting. His tongue is soft, when it brushes Quentin’s lips, makes him want to open up without a second thought. 

Exciting is a good way to describe it, the feeling that curls in Quentin’s stomach as they shed their clothes, as Eliot half-picks him up to slide the two of them back on to his bed. Excitement, at the span of Eliot’s shoulders as he slides off his shirt, excitement at the thick dark hair on his chest and the hungry look in his eyes. It’s exciting to feel Eliot braced over him, big enough to make Quentin feel caged in when they kiss again. Excitement, eager and sharp, when he finally gets his hands down Eliot’s pants, feels up his cock in the tight confines of his trousers. It’s already thickening up, head poking out of the foreskin, and that’s exciting too; all the ways they’re different here. 

“Want you," Quentin breathes, give Eliot's cock a little squeeze, feels it grow a little in response. Quentin stomach clenches in excitement, God. That beautiful cock. 

Eliot laughs breathlessly above him, curls tumbling artfully across his forehead. "You have an exam tomorrow," Eliot points out, _kissing_ – all the way down Quentin neck, that scrape of stubble on skin like lightning through him. 

"What, you think I'm not gonna be able to focus if I can still feel your massive dick inside me the whole time?" 

"I think," Eliot breathes out, nose dragging up Quentin’s neck until they can kiss again, again, _again_ , "– that it's a distinct possibility."

“Sounds like you’re gonna have to get creative then,” Quentin sighes, _rubbing_ – just to feel Eliot’s hips press into his hand, to hear him gasp as Quentin’s thumb rubs up under the head of his cock, tracing that fascinating seam where the extra skin folds back. 

“Just– _Jesus, fuck–_ just me?” Eliot pants, pulling back enough that Quentin can look up into his face. He’s lit golden-yellow by the soft lamp and the flickering fire-light shining in through the windows of his room, hazel eyes blown black and mouth a soft red that Quentin just wants to– _bite– “_ Where’s your creativity, Coldwater?”

“Baby, I think we both know that if it’s up to me, it’s going in my mouth,” Quentin says dryly, which makes Eliot _laugh_ , sharp and bright and loud, and look at Quentin in that way he does sometimes. Like Eliot _likes_ him, just– _likes_ him. Like Quentin makes him _happy_. 

“I’m never going to complain about that,” Eliot purrs, petting one of his _beautiful_ fingers over Quentin’s mouth, and what, is he supposed to just _not_ lick it? Eliot’s skin tastes a little like wine and woodsmoke, and Quentin wants to chase it, except Eliot’s hand is moving to cradle the back of his head. Thumb petting softly at the skin behind Quentin’s ear like it’s an afterthought, Eliot brushes their noses together as he says, thoughtfully. “I might have an idea, though.”

“O- _oh_?” Quentin asks, squeaks really, because Eliot _licks his throat_ and then has the audacity to _pull away_ after. Except– oh, he’s taking his pants off, which is good, yeah, probably necessary for pretty much anything Quentin wants right now. Scrambling to follow his lead, Quentin gets his jeans about three quarters of the way off before he gets distracted watching Eliot, with his miles of leg ending in tiny silky black briefs which are doing absolutely _nothing_ to keep his cock in place–

“Pants, Q,” Eliot says, fondly, with way more composure than someone _that hard_ with like a full bottle of wine in their system should be able to manage. 

By the time Quentin extracts his ankle from his jeans and underwear, Eliot is naked, kneeling on the bed with one hand curled loosely around his cock. He’s watching like– like something about Quentin is worth seeing, like something about seeing Quentin _makes_ Eliot want to curl those unfairly long fingers around his own _beautiful dick_ – And Jesus, Quentin almost wants to go at it mouth-first anyway, ideas be damned, except Eliot’s smiling and reaching out for him with a murmured “C’mere,” and so, thoughtless– Quentin goes.

He gets a kiss, which he was expecting, straining up because even with both of them kneeling on the bed like this Eliot is still almost a full head taller than him. Then he gets nudged around, which he was not expecting, Eliot’s hands gentle but firm on his hips, sides, ribs. 

“What are we doing?” He pants out, which gets him another laugh, soft and gentler this time. But maybe that’s because Eliot’s crowding up behind him now, close enough that his breath skates out over Quentin’s ear. 

“You said you wanted it,” Eliot murmurs, low, nose and mouth brushing along Quentin’s shoulder until he’s shivering. “I’m giving it to you. Trust me.”

“Yeah– okay,” Quentin agrees, thoughtless, leaning back helplessly into the bulk of Eliot’s body behind him. God, he’s so warm, all skin and scratchy hair as his arms loop around Quentin to have enough room to do a series of familiar tuts, conjure slickness out of thin air onto the plane of his palm.

“Spread your legs,” he murmurs, soft and hot where his head’s hooked over Quentin’s shoulder. It sends a bolt of heat shooting down into Quentin’s gut, but he does, feeling– flushed hot and embarrassed and– _turned on_.

“I thought you said we couldn’t–” he starts, but then Eliot’s hands move not back towards Quentin’s ass but _down_. The slick is body-temperature, but Quentin still jumps a little as Eliot spreads it on the sensitive skin of Quentin’s inner thighs, up over his balls and back, getting everything– _wet–_

“There you go,” Eliot sooths, bringing his slick-wet hand up at last up to Quentin’s cock, as with the other he nudges his own cock in and– _up_ until– “Close your legs now, baby?” 

Quentin does, feeling flushed hot and skin-tight, shivering all over. It throws his balance off a little, squeezing his legs together, but he doesn’t _care_. He can lean back into the solid bulk of Eliot’s body behind him, keep his legs tight closed to give Eliot somewhere nice and warm to–

_–fuck_.

“Oh,” Quentin breathes out, only it’s more a moan, really, than a word. Because _oh_ , it’s– it feels _good_ , Eliot’s cock dragging against the slick skin of his perineum, rubbing against his balls, the rarely-touched sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Breath caught in his throat, Quentin looks down and he can _see–_

He can see Eliot’s long, thick, beautiful cock, poking out from between his legs on every gentle thrust, the head shiny and red. He can see Eliot’s big hand holding Quentin’s own cock flat against his stomach, the span wide enough to cover the whole thing. He can _see_ it all, and he can hear Eliot’s ragged breath against his neck, and he can _feel_ the drag of it like it’s– _inside_ him, but it’s not because he can– see it all.

“Oh, god, _El_ ,” Quentin gasps, flailing around for something to hold on to, which means he ends up with one hand gripping the wrist Eliot’s not currently using to pin Quentin’s cock in place, and the other one back on the eminently squeezable curve of Eliot’s ass. Which– is just too much, maybe, given that now he can feel the flex of muscle every time Eliot thrusts.

“Harder,” Quentin gasps, and Eliot’s hand tightens on him reflexively, like he’s being– so fucking carefully.

“Don’t want to knock you over,” Eliot pants, voice low and deep near Quentin’s ear and it makes him fucking _shiver_ , nipples going prickly into painfully tight little points, because _Jesus Christ, this man_ –

“You won’t,” Quentin promises, reaching back with his other arm too, so he can hold on. “I can take it.”

“ _Fuck, Q_ ,” Eliot swears, and his hips snap in on the next thrust, jolting Quentin but not– moving him. Not when he’s got something to hold on to. 

“Yeah, come on,” he agrees mindlessly, loving the feel of it between his legs, the heat of it. Eliot’s making these– wonderful sounds, breathless pants and groans, his big broad warm hand keeping Quentin’s cock tucked up out of the way and it just feels– so intimate, so fucking overwhelming. “I can feel how hot your cock is. Jesus, El, you’re so hard.”

“I really am,” Eliot agrees, forehead dropping down onto Quentin’s shoulder, and– his curls are wet with sweat, hanging off his forehead and down against Quentin’s chest. Beautiful soft curls, when Quentin risks letting go with one hand to reach up and– hold him, stroke his head, just– touch him, because Eliot _deserves_ to be touched with kindness, and fuck if he’s going to let Quentin do it then who is he to pass up the chance–

“You feel good,” Quentin murmurs, angling his head as much as he can to get his mouth on skin, just the curve of Eliot’s jaw within reach. “El–”

Eliot makes a sound that’s half a moan, half a sob, gripping Quentin’s hip tightly and fucking faster, harder, sharper. Like he’s losing control, loosening that grip he tries so hard to keep on his own composure most of the time. _It’s okay_ , Quentin wants to say, helpless, clinging back, _it’s okay, you can let go. I’m not going to let it hurt when you fall_. 

It’s _messy_ , when Eliot comes, with a grunt and the hot spill of semen on the insides of Quentin’s thighs. It’s sticky and should really be gross, except– except Eliot’s barely done coming before he’s pushing Quentin back onto the bed and shouldering his way in between Quentin’s thighs. Making him _spread_ , really, to a degree which almost aches because Eliot is nothing if not broad-shouldered. Then his– soft mouth and warm soft wet tongue are on Quentin’s skin, licking up the streaks of his own come and licking up, and licking up until he’s– _nuzzling_ at Quentin’s cock, murmuring, “Hi, cutie,” like he’s fucking– _missed_ Quentin’s dick.

It sends a hot rush of embarrassment, not-quite-shame through Quentin, makes him want to cover his eyes with one hand and grip Eliot’s hair with the other, because– because he feels _small_ , but he _likes it_. Likes the way Eliot calls his cock _cute_ , the way it almost disappears in Eliot’s hand, the way _Eliot_ likes it. 

And the thing is– 

Being with Eliot always kind of makes Quentin wonder how he managed to get to 24 years old without having good sex before. And maybe that’s not fair to– Alice, and the handful of girls who came before her, except– The thing is, Quentin has _never_ felt wanted the way he does like this. Stripped bare and laid out, spread apart and vulnerable, he’s never felt _desirable_ like this before. Like everything he has is the exact thing someone else wants. To look down and see _hunger_ in Eliot’s eyes as he takes Quentin’s cock in his mouth, to watch satisfaction spread across his face as Eliot goes _down_ , until Quentin’s cock is nudging the back of his throat. Eliot’s hands cup his hips and hold on like he’s never wanted anything else as he makes his throat relax, until he can push forward so his nose is brushing the skin on Quentin’s lower belly.

Quentin hadn’t known he could be _wanted_ like this, so thoroughly, so completely. 

He’d had no idea how much feeling that, and _wanting_ just as much in return, made sex so much better. Add to that the fact that Eliot’s got experience and technique to match Quentin’s own determination and enthusiasm, and it’s just– mind-blowing. Literally. Quentin is having his mind blown. 

“I’m gonna come,” he manages to get out, one hand still petting in Eliot’s curls, because– sometimes Eliot doesn’t like to swallow, because sometimes it makes him cough for like an hour after, and Quentin tries to be good about it, but–

Tonight Eliot just hums, and goes back to the root, works the head of Quentin’s cock into his throat again and again and again until Quentin’s arching his back, helpless, as pleasure blooms outwards. Eliot just takes it, eyes closed, swallowing with determination around the wash of come. Every nerve ending Quentin has is sparkling, all alight, as Eliot works him through it, suckling ever so gently until Quentin starts to go soft and shy away from the oversensitivity.

“Um,” he starts, intelligently, as Eliot pulls off and clears his throat a little. “Good creativity. A+ top of the class, really.”

“Arts and crafts were my strong suit,” Eliot agrees, crawling up Quentin’s body to kiss him, which is– nice. They could do more of that, maybe. Except Eliot’s pulling away, nuzzling their noses together, as he whispers, “I’m gonna go get some water. Don’t go anywhere?”

“Mmmhm,” Quentin agrees, like there’s much chance of that. Like there’s anywhere else he wants to be tonight. Anything else he wants to do, other than take advantage of one of the few nights he has left of Eliot’s comfortable bed, the smell of his sheets, the warmth of his skin. “Come back soon.”

“I will,” Eliot promises him, kissing again softly, before crawling off the bed to collect one of his many robes and undoubtedly scandalize one or more of their housemates by wearing that and nothing else down into the kitchen. Quentin burrows his way under the covers, and watches him go.

____

Eliot goes with Quentin into the city, when the semester ends.

“You don’t have to come all this way, you know,” Q protests, _again_ , as they step off the subway into Penn Station. But he’s still holding Eliot’s hand, letting Eliot carry his duffle bags. It’s military-green and probably bought at an army surplus store, because that seems like the kind of thing Quentin’s father would do, and Quentin wouldn’t care enough about to protest. He doesn’t, in any way that matters, looking like he’d rather be waiting to catch the train to New Jersey by himself.

“I wanted to come,” Eliot says, _again_ , but can’t really bring himself to resent the repetition when it makes Quentin smile, small and private, curl in towards Eliot in the shuffling crowd. 

It’s true, anyway, he _had_ wanted too, would have driven Quentin all the way to Montclair himself if he still had a car. He’d had to have Margo talk him out of renting one to do just that, because she’s right, there’s a line between helpful and overbearing, and that’s probably it. Besides, the portal from Brakebills into New York was free, and Eliot loved being in the city anyway. It wasn’t even one in the afternoon yet; he’d have plenty of time to make the trip worthwhile after Quentin’s train left. 

They’re early enough, due to Quentin’s travel anxiety and the efficiency of magical portals, that there’s a free bench near the platform when they roll into the station. Q perches on it, sitting as he always does, like a human raised by pigeons who’s never encountered a bench before. It makes something kind of painfully fond tighten in Eliot’s chest, and he’s– got to turn away, look out at the platform so he’s not looking at the curtain of Quentin’s hair, the wonderful slope of his nose, the corners of his mouth where his dimples grow. 

Fuck.

Three months.

That’s longer than most relationships Eliot’s had. 

“Hey,” Q’s voice comes through softly, and there’s a tug on the back of Eliot’s belt, like Quentin hooked his fingers into it nudge him back. “You can’t just stand there for 45 minutes holding a bag, Eliot. If you’re going to wait with me, then sit.”

Well, okay then. “Maybe I was waiting for you launch yourself off that bench from your runner’s crouch,” Eliot drawls, dropping the bag he’s holding down next to Quentin’s beat up suitcase and his messenger bag. He drops to sit next to Quentin, arm along the back of the bench in invitation.

“Mean,” Quentin accuses, but he tips over immediately, snuggling over into Eliot’s side. Head on his shoulder and knees on his thighs, Quentin cuddles in close in that thoughtless way he has, not a deliberate _queer like fuck you_ dare into the world but with the ease of someone who didn’t– grow up afriad. Not of this.

Eliot loops his arm around Quentin’s shoulder, feels the warmth of him through his shirt, and presses a kiss to the top of his head. _Queer like fuck you_. “Yeah, I’m so mean to you,” he agrees, low, teasing. “Don’t know why you put up with me. You must be looking forward to getting a break from me.”

“Fuck, not at all,” Quentin laughs, a little choked, and Eliot’s heart clenches up in response. Q’s face grinds a little against Eliot’s collarbone before he pulls back, still in the circle of Eliot’s arm but enough to wrap his hands around his own knees. “Literally, I already miss you, this is so dumb.”

“It’s not– I’m going to miss you too,” Eliot says around the lump in his throat, rubbing his thumb along the curve of Quentin’s shoulders. God, because Quentin should know, right? Eliot might be crap about talking about his feelings, but he doesn’t want Quentin to feel like he’s _alone_ in this. 

“You’ll be in Spain,” Quentin points out, a little quirk at the corner of his mouth as he rests his chin on his knees, gives Eliot those big puppy eyes of his. 

“Not for another two weeks,” Eliot says weakly.

“Mm, you have Margo,” Quentin points out, wiggling his fingers a little until Eliot hooks their pinkies together. “You’ll be fine.”

“We should– meet here, before I leave for Barcelona,” Eliot says, spur of the moment, but– fuck, July is a _long time away_. “We can meet in the city, and then– I don’t know, you can crash at Brakebills for a night, and go back to Jersey when we leave. You can be away for a night, right?”

“I can be away for as long as I want,” Quentin says, sitting up a little. “This is a self-imposed exile, remember? That’s not– I dunno, that’s not too soon?”

“Not for me,” Eliot promises, looking into Quentin’s eager face, so fucking beautiful. “I understand why you’re doing this, but if I had my way I’d keep you all summer.”

A little smile starts to curl at the corner of Quentin’s mouth. “Yeah?”

“God, yeah, of course,” Eliot whispers fervently, leaning into to steal a kiss just because he can, because Q’s _here_ , now, with kisses ripe for the stealing. “Let’s meet up. Come on, it’ll be like– a date. We don’t do that very often.”

They’ve done it exactly once, in fact, if you don’t count the first night they hooked up, which Eliot tends not to because it gives Margo way too much credit. It had been Quentin’s idea, actually, to take Eliot to a wine-tasting at some up-its-own-ass place in Brooklyn. They’d drunk quite a lot of their tasting wine and giggled outrageously through the whole thing, and when they kissed in the tungsten lit garden outside, Quentin’s smile had tasted like rosé. Then the preparation for finals had started the next day, and well. Dates had been kind of thin on the ground since then. 

“Okay,” Q agrees, voice quiet and private. Just for Eliot. “Yeah, that’d be nice, to have– something to look forward to.”

“Let me pick, this time,” Eliot asks, a sudden desperate urge to prove... something. That he knows Q as well as Q knows him, maybe. That he can take the same time and care. “I want to take you out.”

“I’m not going to complain,” Quentin agrees, and then tips his face up– asking for another kiss. Eliot gives it, and _fuck_ Q’s just... melting, soft. Sweet. Pulling away from him is heartbreaking, but well. They’re in public. 

“Fuck,” Eliot breathes, as Quentin head drops back on to his shoulder. “Two weeks is doable.”

"Totally doable," Quentin agrees, settling his hand warm and heavy onto Eliot's thigh. Then he turns, nudging his nose up against the underside of the Eliot's chin playfully. "Hey, did you ever figure out why Margo was being shifty about her PA final?" 

"Oh my god, _yes_ ," Eliot exclaims, delighted. "Do I have some gossip for you, sweetheart." 

The remaining 40 minute wait flies by like that, in Quentin’s laughter and their voices shared into the sacred space between their bodies, a private little world all their own. But all too soon, the boarding call goes out for Quentin’s train, and they're standing outside the platform. "Call me, basically whenever you want," Quentin whispers as Eliot wraps him into a hug. God, they fit together so _well,_ how is Eliot supposed too just... let him go? 

"Tomorrow," he promises, feeling– skinned, tender, aching. Grabbing for some thread of composure, he says lightly "You know if you wanted to give my ass just a _little_ goodbye squeeze, you could."

It makes Quentin laugh, shoulders shaking in his arms, and honestly that's almost as good. 

Eliot stands at the edge of the platform, watching, as Quentin boards his train. He looks back, just for a moment, as he steps on, holds up his hand in a little wave. Eliot waves back, heart in his throat, and then Q’s gone. He waits at the end of the platform until the train pulls out anyway, just– just in case.

New York City feels cold, somehow, after that. Even the early summer heat can’t really seem to penetrate the bubbly of asphalt and skyscrapers. He’d had a plan, some things he wanted to get done; new clothes for Barcelona, stop in at one of the many magical shops both legitimate and black market to see if anything interesting or useful had turned up, maybe swing by a record store. But all Eliot can see anywhere he looks is Mike, telling Eliot he was special and wanted while also screwing his personal trainer. All he can hear is Alexi from undergrad saying _Honestly, Eliot, you’re too high maintenance. If I wanted to do this much work, I’d fuck girls._ Eliot loves New York, he honestly does, but suddenly more than anything he wants to be back in the shelter of The Cottage with his Bambi. 

Well, maybe not more than _anything,_ but _..._ More than anything else he can actually have right now.

He can’t disappear behind the wards quite yet, so he goes to the market instead, buys some couscous and steak and broccolini for sauteing. He’s browsing the wine selection when his pocket buzzes, a text from Q containing picture of a leafy tree in bloom clearly taken from inside a window with the caption _‘view from my childhood bedroom_. _as you can see, I have arrived.’_

That’s going to have to be enough. Best he’s going to get, anyway. It’s permission, at the very least, to go back and hide behind Margo’s skirts. She’ll want to celebrate the start of summer, anyway. 

Eliot skips the wine and buys tequila instead. 

____

“Hey, you.”

The Skype connection is grainy, the monitor in the tech shack barely up to the task of displaying even a basic Youtube video, nevermind displaying Eliot’s boyfriend in the 4k HD he deserved to be seen in. Instead he’s an unsteady blurr, all knees pulled up to his chest and loose hair tumbling around his face, clearly sitting at a desk in front of his laptop. In the room behind him, Eliot can see the top of a bed, rumpled mess of unmade blankets, the edge of a poster or two. Tantalizing hints, all of them, to the person Quentin used to be.

“Hey yourself,” Eliot replies, and he’s smiling, god help him, but he can’t stop smiling. A couple of phone calls propped up against the payphone on the quad have not been enough. “How’s Jersey?”

“Quiet,” Quentin admits, laughing a little. He ducks his head, and his hair swings in front of his face, making Eliot’s hands itch to reach out and touch him. “I dunno, being back here feels weird, especially– like, I had summer jobs, in high school? In undergrad too. Honestly, the last two years I didn’t even come back here. It’s just weird, to be kicking around the house all the time.”

“Thinking about becoming a barista to pass the time?”

“God, no.” Q looks up under his lashes, biting his lip and Eliot feels a wash of heat because– god, six days, he hasn’t gotten to kiss Q in _six days_. He feels like he’s dying of thirst, over here. “Plus, that would kind of defeat the purpose of being here to help my dad.”

“How’s he doing?” Eliot asks, gently. He can just see Q’s shrug through the lag in the connection. 

“He’s sick. I can tell, more, now that I’m here, that he’s really actually sick. It’s– some days are better than others? I’m gonna go with him to his doctor’s appointments, see why– I mean, it doesn’t make sense to me that there’s _no_ treatment worth trying. Like– people get better from cancer, right? Sometimes?”

“I– I don’t know, Q. Sometimes,” Eliot says, hesitantly, and– fuck, he feels like a selfish piece of shit. Six days moping around campus, thinking how much more he’d always enjoyed summers before when he didn’t have anyone to _miss_ and– Q’s been dealing with this. Eliot’s been moping like this is a choice Q made, he wouldn’t rather have a healthy father and get to fuck around with his friends all summer. Like him leaving is somehow a reflection on _Eliot_ when he knows it’s not, has been telling Margo it’s not for days. “I don’t know anything about this stuff, but um. I can do like. Research? If you need, I’m just kind of sitting around here. Or... If there’s anything else I can do to help. Do you need rides? I can drive.”

“My dad can still drive,” Quentin sighs, resting his arm on his knee and his chin on his arm. “I don’t know, El. I barely know what to do with myself, much less what– what kind of help to ask for. But thanks.”

“I want to help,” he promises, and god, it’s stupidly true, isn’t it? Hasn’t he wanted to help Quentin since his second week, when that fight with Penny had landed him in trouble and found Eliot confessing his deep dark secrets out in the dreary rain. It doesn’t fucking matter if Quentin was a portal and a train ride away. Eliot still wants to help.

“I’ll tell you, if you can.”

“Even if it’s just–” What, _being there with you_? Hello guy I’ve been dating for a month, let me watch your fucking _dad die_. Jesus. _Jesus_. Eliot fights the urge to scrub his hands over his eyes, because that would just smear his eyeliner all over the place. He’s gonna get so fucking drunk after this call. “–even if you just need to talk.”

“Well, I always want to talk to you,” Quentin says, and there’s a warmth to his voice that makes Eliot’s stomach swoop. Eliot thinks he’s probably dimpling at the screen, that little crease in the corner of his mouth where Eliot gets to tuck his kisses, until it makes Quentin laugh. “How about you, what have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know. Drinking, smoking, painting Margo’s nails,” Eliot sighs, trying to disguise the wiggle of lonely unhappiness in his gut. He’s always _loved_ the nothingness of summer, the quiet campus devoid of people, no one else to take Margo’s attention away from him. Except this year, it’s hard to ignore the Quentin shaped hole in their orbit, or the dissertation-shaped storm clouds brewing on the horizon, all the messy out of place pieces scattered across Eliot’s life. “A lot of beautiful nothing.”

Quentin’s head tilts, puppy-like. He’s so _fucking_ cute. Has he always been this fucking cute? “You don’t sound super happy about that.”

“Oh, I love doing nothing,” Eliot laughs, rolling his shoulders a little against the terrible computer chair. “I much prefer doing nothing to doing something, most of the time.”

“But not now,” Quentin fills in, shrewdly.

Eliot can’t do much besides shrug. “I mean, Margo’s kind of being a bitch about this whole thesis thing. She’s like– determined to get a head start or whatever, so–” 

Quentin hums thoughtfully, arms wrapping around his knees again. “Margo’s also already got an idea of what she wants to explore, though. There’s nothing wrong with taking the summer to just relax. I mean, I’m literally just sitting around catching up on Netflix and all the movies I missed this year.”

“You’re not going into third year,” Eliot points out quietly, too quietly to be picked up by the shitty webcam.

“What? I missed that, you kind of dropped off.”

“Nothing, nevermind,” Eliot says, louder, readjusting himself to sit up straighter, press his shoulders back and breathe. “Just– you should have a call with Margo, fill her in on all the nerd shit she’s missing.”

“Hey, have her call me whenever,” Quentin laughs, waving his hand as if to indicate his ample free time. “You’re the ones with the shitty reception, I’m just sitting here with my thumb up my ass.”

“Why, Quentin, I didn’t know it was that kind of call,” Eliot purrs, suggestive, and Quentin laughs. The sound distorted through the connection, and Eliot hates it. He wants to hear Q’s laughter, his dumb little giggle, the warmth of his happiness, all the more precious for how hard-won it is.

“I don’t even want to think about _anyone_ jerking off in the tech shack, El,” Quentin mumbles, and Eliot wonders if the door to his room is open. If his dad is kicking around somewhere nearby, listening to the formless rhythm of their conversation, the muffled rise and fall of sound echoing through the house Eliot’s never seen. 

“Yeah, best not to think about that,” Eliot agrees, though he’s never been less hard, honestly. Mostly he just wants to lay with his head in Quentin’s lap, feel Quentin’s strong fingers scratching against his scalp. Mostly he just wants to see Quentin’s smile from 3 feet away instead of 300 miles. Mostly he just wants to stop feeling like everything’s slipping away.

"There's got to be a lot of magical history in Spain. Maybe you can find something there that inspires you. For your dissertation, I mean?" 

"Babycakes, please don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not going to Spain to do homework. I'm going to Spain to drink a lot of excellent wine and look at a lot of very attractive men in very tiny swimsuits."

That gets him another burst of giggles. Eliot can't see if Q's blushing, but he ducks his head, hair swinging in front of his face in the way that means he probably is. Knee up to his chest, he looks– incredibly snuggable. All the way out there in fucking New Jersey. "Well, you could do both," Q suggests, looking up at Eliot from under his lashes. 

"Okay, Hermione Granger," Eliot shoots back, just to watch him laugh. 

"I'm not good enough to be Hermione," Quentin says, dimpling at him through the screen. "Julia's Hermione, or Alice. I'm like... Neville, probably."

"Margo calls you 'our Harry,' you know? Granted I haven't read the books because, as we both know, I can't read–" 

"Of course, right, naturally."

"– but I did see at least six and a half of the movies, and it seems to me that Harry's more the 'dumb jock with a heart of gold' type–" 

"Wow, you know me so well, El, it's like we share a brain."

"– and I think it's not off base to say that you would run into a creepy bathroom dungeon containing a giant snake monster if someone you care about was stuck inside it," Eliot concludes watching a pleased little expression bloom across Quentin face. 

"Well," he starts, and then glances away. "Maybe for you or Margo or Julia. Penny and Kady have to save their own asses."

“Penny and Kady are more than capable of saving their own asses,” Eliot agrees. “Then again, Margo and Julia probably are too. Guess that just leaves me.”

“Like you really need it either. You’re the single most powerful caster in your year,” Quentin points out, low, a dry quirk to the corner of his mouth. 

“Oh, baby, I think I need it more than you know,” Eliot admits, feeling– raw, stripped and skinned all of a sudden. Like somehow Quentin might not know how much of a mess he is, like he didn’t– watch Eliot fall apart for weeks, last year.

Like he hasn’t been seeing through the performance Eliot puts on for a while now.

“I miss you too,” Quentin says, quietly, and Eliot’s heart aches. 

“Yeah– yeah, I know.” He swallows, fumbling in his bag to fish out his flask. Getting drunk after is still a good plan, but– maybe he can burn away a little of that sting now. Quentin’s watching him thoughtfully when he looks back to the screen, but says nothing, just offers a little smile. “So tell me about this nerd shit you’re catching up on.”

“Hmmm, how much do you care about Westworld spoilers?”

“Baby, I don’t even know what that is,” Eliot admits, sinking back against the horrible chair and taking another swig. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Okay, so it’s this, like– theme park? Okay, fuck, no, it’s a TV show called Westworld but in the show there’s also this theme park called Westworld. And it’s like this near future thing, but the park is set in the old west... and the whole show is this, like, meditation about personhood, because there’s like, robots, right? But you don’t know that–”

The knot of tension wound up tight like a spring between Eliot’s shoulder blades begins to loosen as he settles in, content to burn an hour or two away like this. Smiling a little, he listens to Quentin talk. 

____

The date ends up being kind of amazing, actually. 

Quentin feels like his head’s in the clouds from about the second he sees Eliot, absentmindedly stuffing a book into his bag as he wanders off the train platform at Penn Station. Eliot is, always, forever, irreverently beautiful, leaning casually against a bench with his long, long legs crossed at the ankle. He looks... fucking incredible, dark grey pants and a purple jacket which is actually probably like– plum or auburgine or some color Quentin doesn’t fucking know. He’d never claim to understand Eliot’s style, but he can appreciate the way it makes him look: like, incredibly appealing, in a Jane Austen kind of way.

Of course, the way Eliot kisses him hello would probably make a regency heroine come down with the vapors. Quentin’s feeling a little faint himself, when Eliot draws back, leaving Quentin’s lips pleasantly damp and tingly. 

“Hello there,” Eliot practically purrs, from like... four whole inches away from Quentin’s face. Was he always so _tall?_

“Uh huh,” Quentin agrees, a little stunned. His jaw is maybe hanging open a little.

This, for some reason, makes Eliot grin, nuzzle their noses together. “Never change, Cutie Q.”

“What?”

“Nevermind,” Eliot laughs, pulling away far enough that they’re not causing a scene in the train terminal anymore, and looping their hands together. “Are you hungry? The place I want to take you has sandwiches and appetizers, but if you want more than that, I’m happy to get dinner first.”

“Sandwiches are fine,” Quentin promises, excitement sparkling through him like champagne bubbles. God, _two_ _weeks_ , he’s been in New Jersey for two weeks, and now he can’t fucking stop smiling. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” Eliot says, smirking like the little shit that he is. Which gives Quentin the perfect excuse to needle him, tug on his hand and whine until Eliot threatens to pin him against a wall and shut him up.

It’s not much of a threat, honestly.

But their destination turns out to be an arcade bar, full of craft beer and cocktails with nerdy names like 'The Princess Peach' and giant collection of game cabinet and pinball machines. Eliot, with his dexterous hands and quick reflexes and excellent pattern recognition, turns out to be kind of unfairly good at all the games that aren't openly rigged. But oddly enough, Quentin finds it hard to be competitive in any serious way, not when Eliot's so clearly enjoying Quentin’s enjoyment more than anything else. They take turns cheering each other on more than they play against each other, laughing and joking as the machines merciless eat their tokens. By the second drink, Quentin wound his way under Eliot's arm, hand in his back pocket, thoroughly handicapping him to the point where he's basically trying to play Donkey Kong one handed. How lucky for him he's telekinetic. 

"You're a menace," Eliot informs him, as the game counts down through the losing screen. But he's smiling, and murmuring the words from a distance of about 3 inches from Quentin’s face, so. He'll take it. 

He’ll take a kiss too, if it’s on offer.

They retreat to a high-topped table once they're out of tokens, with fresh drinks in hand, Quentin with a beer and Eliot, a cocktail named 'Winter is Coming' which seems to just be an overpriced gin and tonic over crushed ice. Sitting, Quentin can just hook his feet on the rungs of Eliot's chair, let their ankles tangle together, bodies angled towards each other. He can feel Eliot's breath on his face as they lean together, talking lowly. He smells fucking amazing, really, sharp and clean and masculine. It makes Quentin want to climb into his _lap,_ which he's not nearly drunk enough to actually do, but the impulse is there.

"Margo spent all morning complaining that I'm hogging you," Eliot's saying, trailing the fingers of his left hand along Quentin's right. "Next time you come visit you're going to have to come for a couple days so she can actually see you."

There's a warm, bubbly glow in Quentin's stomach that's got very little to do with the alcohol. Margo, in her own way, has been as good a friend to him in this last year as Eliot has. Missing her has a different shape, of course it does, but he misses her too. "I brought her a book," Quentin says, gesturing towards his messenger bag, hung up on the wall innocently, like it's not currently under the effects of Ramsiders Extradimensional Space. "I know you're not flying to Spain, but I figured she could like.... read on the beach or something."

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled," Eliot agrees, fingers trailing along the inside of Quentin's wrist. He's wearing three different rings on that hand, and Quentin finds himself wanting to put his mouth on the metal, feel the temperature difference between the body-warm silver and Eliot's skin. "Even if she doesn't read it while we're in Barcelona, I'm sure she'll read it after."

"Have you ever been before?" Quentin wonders aloud, watching the play of colored lights from the arcade cabinets mixing on Eliot’s face in the dim light. The noise of the bar is a good excuse to sit close, but that doesn’t stop Quentin from looking his fill, seeing as much of Eliot as he can get right now.

"Barcelona? No. Spain, yes, obviously, twice for Encanto Occulto, but that's sort of it's own thing. You don't really go for the culture."

Quentin nods, because right, of course, but then he actually thinks about it and... Something about the math there doesn’t quite line up. "Wait, I thought you didn't go this year?"

"I didn't." Eliot's mouth turns down, looking away unhappily, and fuck, shit, Quentin's an idiot. He didn't go this year because of _Mike._ Which is probably something of a sore spot, now, given how _that'd_ turned out.

"So did you go... _before_ Brakebills?" Quentin puts together, which is kind of odd, given that– don’t you have to be a Magician to go? Don’t you have to be _invited_ by Magicians to go? Eliot nods, a little smirk starting up on his lips, and Quentin laughs, delighted. "Eliot Waugh, were you a _hedge witch?_ "

"Don't you think you would have noticed if I had a full tattoo sleeve? I know my excellent physique and massive cock are distracting, but–"

"Okay, asshole," Quentin gripes, kicking uselessly at Eliot's shin under the table. " _‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable–’_ "

"Yeah, yeah, okay nerd, calm down," Eliot teases, pushing in to quiet Quentin with a kiss. Which should probably be annoying except Quentin is like, constitutionally incapable of being annoyed about being kissed by Eliot. "There was a guy. I'm not saying I was sucking dick for spells, but there was dick sucking, and there were spells."

Something about that– rubs Quentin wrong, a little, but Eliot seems unbothered by the idea, so Quentin just... lets it go. “So he brought you?”

“Mhm,” Eliot agrees with a little shrug. “It wasn’t really a thing, we basically only spent that week together. Then the next year, I brought Bambi.”

“And this year she brought Todd,” Quentin, just to watch Eliot’s nose wrinkle in disgust. “You realize that means he can go back next year on his own if he wants.”

“Oh _god_ ,” Eliot groans, dropping his head forward onto Quentin’s shoulder. The spicy smell of his cologne wafts around them, and Quentin has to fight the urge to bury his nose in Eliot’s hair. “That’s it, I can never go back. It’s ruined forever now.”

“That might be a bit of an overreaction,” Quentin points out.

“It is not,” Eliot whines, pulling back to take a very morose sip of his cocktail. “I was going to try to talk you into going next year, and now we’d have to deal with like. Todd dick.”

Quentin chokes a little, face burning hot. “You realize I’m, like, way more likely to end up in the corner bumming everyone out than Todd, right?”

“Oh, baby, no you’re not,” Eliot says, in that voice that is kind of surprised, somehow. Like he hasn’t spent a year trying to coax Quentin out of various corners. “I mean, I recognize that is your general approach to parties, but I also fuck you. I know you have the ability to get uninhibited in the right circumstances.”

“I don’t know if those circumstances would be on a beach in the middle of an orgy,” Quentin says quietly, because god, even the idea of it makes his skin prickle in a way that has way more to do with embarrassment than excitement. It was one thing to lose himself with Eliot, who he trusted more than– anyone, really. Another, completely, to give it to a beach full of strangers.

When he looks up, Eliot’s watching him with this kind of– raw open tenderness, that makes Quentin’s stomach wriggle. “Well, then, no beach orgies for you,” he says, easy, leaning in until there’s only their breath between them, and the puff of Eliot’s words tease his skin like a physical touch. “Just means I get to keep you all to myself, now doesn’t it?”

Little shivers of delight chases up Quentin’s spine, and _hmm, yes, keep me_. “Seems like it,” he agrees, flirting his fingers along the inside of Eliot’s thigh, where the fabric of his pants is stretched tight over the muscle. “Luckily, you’re usually up to the task.”

“Oh, baby, I so am,” Eliot agrees, then– _licks_ along Quentin’s bottom lip– like they’re not in the middle of a bar and– okay, yeah, beach orgies, it shouldn’t exactly be surprising Eliot’s a bit of an exhibitionist. And god, he should be, looking the way he does–

“You’re–” Quentin squeaks, and then stops and clears his throat. “You’re going to get us thrown out, and I haven’t even played Lord of the Rings pinball yet.”

Eliot laughs, brushing a softer more PG kiss against Quentin’s mouth, before pulling away, leaning back in his chair with a rakish smile. “Well, we’d better get you some more tokens then.”

They make their way back to the Brakebills portal in the dark, laughing and clinging to each other as the heat of summer clings to the city. Quentin, at least, isn’t drunk enough to really need it, and he doesn’t think Eliot is either, but it’s nice. Honestly, it’s so fucking nice to be back in the city, to feel his age, almost 24 and recklessly hopeful with beautiful man holding his arm. At some point Eliot’s tie had come loose, the top button on his shirt undone, and he’s so– he’s so fucking surreally lovely Quentin has to push him up against a wall and fit his mouth against that secret triangle of skin. It makes Eliot laugh, delighted, then groan a little, and then they’re fully making out against a wall. God, Quentin feels fucking _alive_. He could do anything, anything at all in the world, because he’s the person Eliot Waugh wants to kiss. 

“If you don’t–” Quentin gasps, as Eliot shifts his weight, thigh pressing interestedly between Quentin’s legs. “–if you don’t stop I’m going to have to blow you in an alleyway.”

“You started it,” Eliot grumbles, but he pulls away, and Quentin has to bite his lip to hold in the groan of protest. “No, you deserve a better date than being on your knees in alley.”

Tender, helpless affection curls in Quentin’s chest. He reaches out to grab Eliot’s lapels in both hands, push up on his toes for a long, sticky kiss. “It was a good date,” he promises, mouth against Eliot’s mouth, close enough to feel the catch of his breath, the shiver through him. “I’m not opposed to being on my knees somewhere else– just so we’re on the same page–”

“Yeah, Q, I know,” Eliot says, sounding kind of amused and really fond. Quentin grins, lips tingling a little as Eliot reaches up, brushes his thumb against them. “Let’s get back to campus with all our clothes on, okay?”

“Tall order,” Quentin says, mock serious, licking briefly at the pad of Eliot’s thumb.

“I believe in us,” Eliot says, horsley, pretty hazel eyes almost black– god, Quentin likes this man so much it’s _stupid._

The burning fire has banked to a simmer by the time the step through the portal and emerge in on the quad. The campus is almost in complete darkness, none of the glowing lights on the exterior of the academic buildings turn on. Eliot mutters something under his breath, too quiet for Quentin to make out the spell, then there’s a flash and he’s holding a palm full of bright flames. 

“Phone flashlight too mundane for you?” Quentin asks, fondly, getting ahold of Eliot’s free hand regardless. The dancing flames cast interesting shadows across his features, and Quentin wants– so badly– to bring their faces together, rub his nose against Eliot’s nose, his mouth against Eliot’s mouth. Something animal inside him just– _wants_.

“Not nearly dramatic enough,” Eliot agrees, but he’s smiling, a soft private just-for-Q smile that Quentin will never, ever be sick of. “Plus, if Margo tries to waylay us, I can threaten to throw it at her.”

There’s no need, in the end, to threaten Margo with anything. The bottom floor of the Cottage is empty when they walk in, which is weird enough to give Quentin pause. This must be the first time he’s ever actually seen the place this quiet. It doesn’t seem to bother Eliot in the slightest as he shakes out his handful of flame, and Quentin understands maybe for the first time, why Eliot could so easily treat this place like he owned it. It’s literally his home. With one full summer of no one but Margo to share the space, of course he acted like he had claim to every room. It was the only place he had any claim to at all. 

There’s a light emanating out from under the door to the second floor bathroom nearest Margo’s room, a sweet-floral scent and the tingle of warming magic wafting out into the hallway. Eliot smiles fondly, fingers twining with Quentin’s. “Baths are a traditional part of Bambi’s self-care nights,” he whispers conspiratorially, tugging Quentin’s hand down the hall and up the second set of stairs to his room, like Quentin really needs to be led. Like there was really any question where they were going. 

Quentin flops down sideways across Eliot’s bed, watching fondly as Eliot closes the door and stops to carefully untie and remove his shoes. The little tipsiness from the bar earlier seems to be mostly gone, but Eliot still looks rumpled, curls falling across his forehead, collar open. Still, he takes the time to make sure his shoes end up in the right place.

“I missed you,” Quentin says quietly, around the burn of affection in his chest. Eliot looks up at him, startled, and all Quentin can do is smile, resting his head on his hand.

“Naturally,” Eliot agrees, all bravado, crossing the room in two long strides. Then he’s climbing onto the bed, bracketing Quentin’s body with his own. Quentin rolls with it, easily, until he’s on his back looking up at Eliot hovering over him. “I’m very missable.”

“Mhm,” Quentin agrees, reaching out to get ahold of Eliot’s hips and tug until he gives in, settling with his weight in the cradle of Quentin’s thighs. The pressure of it pushes Quentin’s legs open a little more, and a hot little shiver of excitement dances through him.

The burning urgency of necking in the street gone, everything feels syrupy and slow when Eliot kisses him. And it’s– god, it’s everything Quentin’s been wanting, in the stolen moments when he can even manage to drag up the desire to touch himself, a shower here and an afternoon alone there. The scrape of Eliot’s end of the day stubble, the bulk of him, big hand cupping the back of Quentin’s neck and tilting, guiding him just where Eliot wants him, how he wants him– god, yes, _this_. Eliot’s mouth, his _mouth_ , hot and wet and open, Eliot’s breath against his breath, Eliot’s tongue against his tongue–

“El,” Quentin breaks away to moan, head rolling back as a shiver of pleasure clenches in his gut, knees tightening on Eliot’s hips reflexively. He’s getting hard, and so is Eliot, he can feel it, right there where Eliot’s caught between his thighs, and god– _god_. “I know I said I was going to suck your dick, but–uh. I want– Would you fuck me? I want you to fuck me.”

Above him, Eliot groans, nose and mouth dragging across Quentin’s cheek as he drags himself back. “Fuck, Q, I– of course. If you– if that’s what you want.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, shivers of excitement in his belly, because– god, Eliot’s big beautiful dick. It’s been– fuck, since before finals, really, _weeks_ since he had it in him like that. God. _Fuck_. “Want it. ‘M gonna– fuck, Eliot, I’m gonna fucking come before you get it half-way in.” 

There’s laughter on Eliot’s voice when he asks, into the skin at the crook of Quentin’s jaw. “Yeah? Should I make you come first?”

And that’s– there’s the temptation there, isn’t there? Because god, Eliot’s broad palm tight around him, covering nearly all of him as he pulled him off, or the hot _wet_ slickness of Eliot’s mouth working him over until he came– god, there isn’t enough _time_ to have all the sex Quentin wants to have before he has to give Eliot back for another two weeks. And the idea of dragging it out for– _hours_ – is incredibly appealing, but the thing about taking Eliot’s dick is–

It’s a lot of work, sometimes, kind of. And he wants it, god, he _wants_ it, with a curling hunger low in his stomach that makes him feel– _empty_. But he’s not, is he, he’s– going to have to take time and relax because it’s been three weeks and the downside to having a boyfriend with a _huge fucking dick_ is that sometimes– when it’s been a while–

“No, just–” Quentin breathes, reaching out to touch, cup Eliot’s head with both hands, stroke the velvety skin and soft little curls behind his ears with both thumbs as Eliot’s head rolls against his neck. “Just give it to me, okay? I want you to give it to me.”

Eliot makes a wounded little sound, almost a whimper, makes something tender and needy knot up in Quentin’s chest. “I will, sweet boy,” Eliot promises, which is– a new one, he thinks, in terms of the pet names Eliot’s used for him. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about it, except it makes that– that weird, embarrassment-safety-hunger feeling expand inside him, like it does when Eliot makes him feel _small_ in a good way. 

“El,” he whispers, thighs tightening on Eliot’s hips, thinking _I want him– god, I want him, god I want him so much, all the time–_

“Probably,” Eliot says, as though with great effort, “Probably getting our clothes off would help.”

“Hm,” Quentin hums, feeling– giddy, “a reasonable hypothesis.”

“If you can still come out with words like ‘hypothesis’, I’m not sure I’m doing this right,” Eliot grumbles, which sends Quentin into a fit of laughter, helpless and happy. But Eliot’s already tugging on his t-shirt, heedless of the fact that it’s stuck under their combined weight. 

It takes some creative wriggling to get Quentin out of his clothes, and then Eliot’s pushing back so he’s up on his knees, going at his own buttons with as much determination as a man who’s definitely hard in his fancy trousers can manage. Quentin pushes up on his elbows, just to watch for a second, as Eliot shucks his tie and vest quickly, face flushed. That flush reaches down his chest, Quentin can see, as he starts the process of undoing the fiddly little row of buttons down his shirt. It’s– god, it’s a sight, the way the skin on his chest peaks out through the gap in the fabric, thick dark hair against pale skin– Quentin thinks he should be commended for waiting as long as he does before he’s pushing up the rest of the way, just to get his _mouth_ on Eliot’s skin.

“You–” Eliot groans, hand flying to the back of Quentin’s head to twist in his hair, a sharp-tight pain that makes Quentin’s dick jerk, achy between his legs, “are _very_ distracting.”

“Go faster then,” Quentin complains, gasping as Eliot tugs his hair in response. He settles, instead, for going at Eliot’s belt while he finishes with his shirt, working it free with trembling fingers, tugging open his trousers. He barely gets a chance to feel him up, really, that hot heavy shaft and the soft weight of his balls, god, Quentin’s mouth is _watering_ and he doesn’t even _want_ that right now– before Eliot’s stumbling away, off the bed to get the rest of his clothes off, because heaven forbid he fuck with his socks on. 

Then he’s gloriously naked at the edge of the bed, cock hard and proud between his legs, standing up against the patch of nearly trimmed dark hair and Quentin just– has to touch, he has to, flail his hand out to the side of the bed so he’s practically dragging Eliot forward dick-first, but. It means he can watch, close up, as he rolls the sheath of skin down, exposing the fat flushed head, shiny and wet. Eliot’s laughter chokes off into a moan, flushed all down his front and flushed here too, hard and thick and Quentin _wants it_ , he wants it so badly he can barely breath.

“I have to finger you,” Eliot pants, like– somehow, Quentin might not _know_ , might not _realize_ what it meant to take this big beautiful dick, like he hasn’t _done it before_ – god, it’s been too long. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, arching up when Eliot bends down to kiss him, opening up for the brush of Eliot’s tongue until it’s– fucking into his mouth, really, Eliot’s hand where it belongs on the back of his head, his hands on Eliot’s sides.

There’s a rattle near the head of the bed, and the bottle of lube comes _shooting_ out of the bedside drawer with a wild tug of telekinesis, slamming into the duvet with a sharp _thwack_. Quentin might start laughing again, at the whole ridiculousness of this, them sprawled out the wrong way round on top of Eliot’s tasteful bedding, Quentin inches from having his head hanging off the foot of the bed and Eliot too impatient to just– reach over and grab the lube, when he can call it too him magically. He might start laughing, but he’s too busy moaning instead, as both of Eliot’s palms slide down the tender skin on the insides of his thighs.

Jerking, a little, instinctively, Quentin flails out for something to hold onto. He ends up with a handful of bedding, and Eliot’s right shoulder, all bone and muscle flexing under warm skin as Eliot just– pulls him open, so gently, until he’s exposed to the cold room. “Talk to me?” he begs, riding the wave of embarrassment at how much of him is– on display like this, cock and balls and hole all– right there, for Eliot to look his fill. Like he can bear it, if he gets to have Eliot’s voice with him through it.

“I’ve got you, Little Q,” Eliot murmurs, adjusting his position a little so the bend of Quentin’s left knee is caught in his right elbow, pushing it up so he can brush the fingers of his left hand between Quentin’s leg. “What do you want me to say?”

“Just– I miss your voice,” Quentin replies shakily, which feels– sharp, too true, even as the muscles in his stomach jump as Eliot’s big hand pets over his cock, moves down to cup his balls gently, god, _god_ , _oh_. 

“You don’t have to miss me,” Eliot murmurs, fingers spread slick down behind Quentin’s balls, a tickly sensation, which is– almost an itch, until he starts rubbing with purpose, the pads of two fingers against Quentin’s hole. “I’m right here, Q, you don’t have to miss me–”

“ _Eliot_ ,”Quentin chokes out on a cry, as the tip of one finger slides in. He tries– god, it’s _– it’s one finger_ , he needs to get himself together except–

“That’s it, bare down,” Eliot’s coaching, soothing like he had the first time they’d done this, and Quentin _knows_ , he _knows_ how to take a dick, certainly knows how to take a couple of fingers, it shouldn’t feel _wholly new_ again– except– “You’re doing so good, baby, just push back for me.”

He’d wanted Eliot to talk, hadn’t he? _Fuck_. 

But he does it, bares back on Eliot’s finger while Eliot leans forward, kisses against his sternum, murmuring so softly that the words loose cohesion in Quentin’s brain, just– texture, feeling, a slow wave as his body yields, and Eliot’s finger slides in to the joint. 

“ _El_ ,” he cries, half-begging, looking down to find Eliot already watching him, soft brown curls and pink wet mouth, Eliot’s eyes blown black and rimmed with hazel, Eliot, _Eliot_ , giving him this.

“You’re so fucking pretty, baby,” Eliot murmurs, shaking his head a little like he can’t quiet believe it. 

Quentin just wants to touch him. That hand on his shoulder, Quentin releases to cup Eliot’s cheek, run his thumb over a sharp cheekbone, as Eliot fucks him slowly with one finger, stopping to add more lube before he goes back in with two. It’s easier now, like Quentin’s body’s finally remembered how to do this, and he arches back against Eliot’s hand, as those two clever Magician’s fingers find his prostate and just– rub, mercilessly, up against where he’s sensitive. It sends a zing of pleasure straight to his cock and he shouts, grabbing thoughtlessly Eliot’s hair. 

“No pulling,” Eliot says, voice gentle but– firm, and Quentin’s letting go before he’s even processed the words. 

“S-sorry,” he pants, petting at little, open palmed, over the top of Eliot’s head.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Eliot murmurs, sounding, indulgent, maybe? Except he’s still fucking Quentin steadily with those unfairly talented fingers, kissing across his ribs and his stomach while Quentin– looses his _mind_.

“I thought–” Quentin starts, shakey, barely able to call up the will to even be a brat when he’s feeling so fucking– tender, so _touched inside_. “–thought you were gonna give it to me?”

Eliot laughs, a little breathless, but Quentin can feel his smile against his stomach. “Nice try,” he shoots back lightly, adding _more_ lube, so everything is slippery wet, so fucking slick, because he’s, _oh_ – working in another finger. “I am, baby, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried, I’m–” Quentin gasps, tugging on the bedding so he doesn’t tug on Eliot’s hair. “–getting _old_ , waiting for–”

Eliot bites him, just a little, a sharp sting of pain at the side of his ribs, and he honestly nearly comes, a white shock of pleasure when he’s so on edge. Three fingers deep and he’s already so– he really is going to come before Eliot gets it halfway in. 

“Stop being so good at this,” he begs helplessly, letting go of the bedding to rub his hand over his own face, hide a little, while he grabs for even a measure of composure. “I’m serious, if you keep fucking– going at me like that, I’m going to come faster then either of us wants and then I’m going to feel bad about it.”

“Okay,” Eliot soothes, and the angle of his fingers changes. Still good, still nice and full and dragging spikes of pleasure along the rim, but– at least that live wire feeling is gone. “It’s okay, Q. You’re doing great.”

“I’m just laying here,” Quentin laughs out helplessly, looking down to find Eliot watching him again, the stripped-back-tender look on his face. “You’re doing all the work.”

Eliot shakes his head. “You’re letting me in.” He punctuates the words a twist of his fingers, and a kiss to Quentin’s belly. “I’m grateful.”

“Well, that’s not hard,” Quentin says, quiet, and Eliot laughs. Disbelieving, maybe. 

Three fingers become four, and Quentin spares a moment to wonder if Eliot’s going to– fucking, try to get his whole hand in there. The idea sends a scared frisson of excitement pinging into his belly, because– oh god, could he take that? But then no, Eliot’s pressing one last kiss to Quentin’s chest, then he’s dragging back onto his knees, squeezing a palmful of lube onto his hand and then smoothing it down the shaft of his cock. And god, that sight, Eliot’s hand curled perfunctory, easily, around his cock, the way his fingers don’t even meet his thumb–

Quentin reaches out for him, as he leans back down, hands on his ribs while Eliot braces one arm on the bed near Quentin’s head, reaches down with the other to guide his cock– _right_ –

“Oh,” Quentin breathes, helpless, rolling his head until he can bury his face in Eliot’s hair. The curls are going damp with sweat, and he smells– clean, and– good, and– it’s not distracting at all from the feeling of his fucking _huge dick_ pressing gently but insistantly where Quentin is. Waiting to open up for him.

“Okay?” Eliot pants, fine tremor of muscles under his skin as he braces and pushes– carefully, with a very controlled amount of force, trembling. Trembling, because he needs to be inside, Quentin wants him inside–

“Uh huh. Uh– _oh,_ ” Quentin groans, nails digging into Eliot’s ribs as the head pops in, thick and full and _stretching_ and. God, so good, Quentin’s shaking too, isn’t he? Or is that just Eliot, trembling into him until they’re both– the same–

“It’s okay,” Eliot says, breath washing out against Quentin’s neck, lube-sticky hand settling onto Quentin’s hip, then gripping back at his ass, his thigh. “Hey, here– can you–?”

“Yeah, just let me,” Quentin agrees, shifting enough so he can get both legs up, hugging the sides of Eliot’s torso, and that changes the angle enough for Eliot to slide in another inch. Quentin groans, arching back, and Eliot’s hips move a little, fucking instinctively like he can’t– hold still– and this, god, this– even with only three or so inches to work with Eliot’s already _melting his spine_ –

“God, Q–” Eliot breathes out, rich voice high and tense, and– Quentin just clings back to him. Wants to take all of him inside.

“I can take it,” he promises, into Eliot’s sweaty curls, which earns him another moan and on the next rocking thrust, Eliot slides in– deeper– “ _Fuck, Eliot_.”

He can take it. He does, god, it takes– another application of lube, and another shift in position, but then Eliot’s sinking into the hilt, and Quentin has– _all of him_ , god, so fucking full he feels it in his stomach, swears he could feel it at the base of his _throat_. Eliot, trembling over him, braced on a forearm tucked beneath Quentin’s head, inches between their faces, because they’re– fucking face to face with the lights on, _Jesus_.

“Hey,” Quentin pants, touching, _touching_ Eliot, god, his ribs his back the curve of his ass. “Hey, you.”

“Hi,” Eliot replies, looking– stricken, somehow.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Quentin says, because he can’t– all he wants is Eliot to feel good. All of Eliot, to feel all of the good. 

Eliot cracks on a helpless laugh, and then he’s rocking, back and hips and ass flexing under Quentin’s hand as he pushes– _in_ – again and again and again. Quentin just, moves with him, best he’s able, rocking back into every thrust as he picks up speed once he’s– moving easily inside, god, _inside_. And suddenly there’s nothing Quentin wants more than to kiss him, pushing up towards his face until Eliot gets the message, lips dragging together and tongues brushing and breath mixing on escaping moans. Eliot’s lube-sticky hand finds Quentin’s elbow, the other arm shifting until he’s cupping the back of Quentin’s skull, so he can– kiss, and kiss, and _kiss–_

“I–” Quentin starts, and then– loses track, licking into Eliot’s mouth, against his teeth, then arching, head grinding back against Eliot’s hand as he lands one, two, three thrusts directly on Quentin’s prostate. “Oh, _fuck_ , oh shit, _El–”_

“I can’t fucking– believe–” Eliot groans, above him, wet curls dripping, their bodies slick with sweat and lube and Quentin’s precome as they rock together, “how well you take it, baby. God– you’re– you feel good?”

“So good,” Quentin promises, fingers digging into Eliot’s back, reaching up to touch his nape. “You make me feel so good, god. I’m just, fucking– split open– and _I love it–_ ”

“I can feel your cock against my stomach,” Eliot groans, pushing in and grinding, so his stomach drags over where Quentin’s aching between them. “It’s so hard and –”

_Little_. The word hangs between them, hot-embarrassing-sweet-wanted, god, Quentin feels his cheeks burn, and he knows– god, Eliot won’t say it, but– “It’s okay,” Quentin murmurs, touching his cheek, the side of his head, his beautiful dear face so broken open with wanting. “It’s okay, El, I like it– I like it when it’s you.”

Eliot makes a hurt, punched out sound, doesn’t actually manage to say it, just– drops his face into the crook of Quentin’s neck and clings to him, arm around his shoulders and gripping his thigh. “You’re so– Q, you’re so–” he’s practically sobbing, clinging, and Quentin’s just– starting to wonder if maybe he should be worried, but Eliot’s– getting a hold of himself, slowly. Still shaking a little, still a sweaty clingy mess, but the tinge of desperation disappears as he starts fucking again, hard and sure and spine-meltingly good, shorting out Quentin’s ability to–

–think about anything, really. 

He’s been on edge for so long, it’s not really a surprise Quentin comes first. The friction of Eliot’s stomach, soft skin and scratchy hair, against him is enough, the drag of Eliot inside him, sparking against his prostate is enough. He bites Eliot’s shoulder when he comes, kind of by accident, shivers of pleasure chasing through his whole body that’s just– so _good_. But it just makes Eliot moan, fuck into him harder.

“S’good,” he slurs through the sparkling of the afterglow, trying to give Eliot what he needs to– get there before the oversensitivity takes over. “It’s so good, Eliot, you– make me feel so good, god, fuck, give me that big dick so good–”

“Fuck,” Eliot hisses, slamming in and shuddering, whole body tense in the craddle of Quentin’s legs as he comes. 

Quentin nudges at Eliot’s face with his nose until he moves enough to be kissed and then kisses him. And kisses him, coaxing, until Eliot’s kissing back, leading the kiss like he likes, like they both like. Deep needy kisses that taper off, slowly, into something softer. It aches, a little, as Eliot cock starts to go soft, slipping out and leaving Quentin– empty– sticky and leaking, a little tender about it.

“I–” Eliot starts, then takes a breath in through his nose, petting softly at Quentin’s skin. “We’re a mess.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, stretching, sticky, satisfied, toes wiggling against the bedspread. “I think we did a pretty good job.” 

Laughter brushes out against his cheek, and Quentin turns into it, kissing Eliot again. God, he could just– do this– until they both fall asleep. But no, that’s not Eliot, Eliot would never fall asleep in his own mess like that.

Not mostly sober, anyway.

The benefit to Eliot’s room essentially being a loft in the attic, spacious and spelled though it is, is that he has a little bathroom attached just for him. They clean up together in there, weirdly tender feeling, almost more intimate than the sex, to rinse down together, brush their teeth side by side at the sink. Quentin perches on the closed toilet and watches Eliot wipe off make-up which has already run with sweat, wash his face in the mirror. It’s a familiar routine, from the last couple weeks of the semester, but Quentin still finds himself fascinated by it, by everything about _Eliot_. Eliot doesn’t even make fun of him, when he asks about things he should probably know, like what the point of _toner_ is. 

“Do you need to pack?” Quentin asks, quiet, as the stumble out of the bathroom, still naked but clean, anyway. Eliot’s hands move over the shapes of a cleaning charm, and the bedding loses its suspicious dark splotches. 

“No,” he says, already sliding covers, Quentin crawling in next to him. God, he’s missed this bed. “I’m good, baby.”

He wants– god, wants to spend the whole night talking, like kids at a sleepover, curl up under the blankets with Eliot and share secrets. But sleep has been thin on the ground for Quentin, really, the past couple weeks, and– Eliot’s arm around him, Eliot’s chest against his side, are so comforting that he doesn’t really even get the chance to try. Just drifts off to sleep, feeling safe.

He wakes up, early in the morning, to an empty bed and the sounds of movement elsewhere in the room.

“I thought you were all packed already,” Quentin mumbles, winding Eliot’s duvet tighter around himself. The sun is barely rising, but there’s enough light spilling into the room that he can just see Eliot moving around the room, wrapped in his gold robe gaping open at the front. 

“I might have exaggerated a bit,” Eliot replies lightly, but he stops next to the bed anyway, smiling down at Quentin. “You can go back to sleep.”

“Mmmm, or I can help?” Quentin offers, even though there’s literally nothing he wants more in the world right now than to tug Eliot back into the bed, get them both wrapped up in the soft sheets and warm blanket.

“No, you can’t,” Eliot murmurs back, a little edge of warm laughter to his voice. It sounds fond, really, and Quentin pouts up at him. “I’ll be fast, I promise. Just a couple more things to take care of.”

“Fine,” Quentin huffs, and steals his pillow, just to make a point. A point which he kind of forgets as soon as he has it, to be honest, because the pillow is soft and smells like Eliot, an indefinable mix of shampoo and cologne and skin and hair. _God_ , but he’s _missed_ this smell. 

He doesn’t mean to drift back to sleep but he must, at some point, because there’s decidedly more sunlight in the room when he opens his eyes again. The pillow is being gently tugged from his arms, and he squints up, face to face with a mostly naked Eliot. “‘S bright,” he mumbles, releasing his armful of pillow so Eliot can slide back into bed and take its place. “Have to leave soon?”

“We have a couple more hours,” Eliot says quietly, hands moving in a familiar pattern in the air in front of him. The windows darken in response, pairing the light level in the room back to a dusky warm glow. It’s nice, and curling into Eliot’s arms is nicer, skin soft and warm against Quentin’s skin. “You can sleep some more if you want.”

“I can sleep later,” Quentin says softly, reaching up to catch one of those talented hands. Long, elegant fingers, noticeably bare of Eliot’s customary rings. Sliding his fingers in between Eliot’s, he rubs the pad of his thumb against a knuckle. It’s not like Quentin’s never seen him without rings on before; he almost always takes them off when working with spell components. It’s one of the first lessons you learn at Brakebills, the way different metals interact with different spells. But here, now, it feels like just another bit of armor stripped away. Glancing up, he finds Eliot watching him, a quiet little smile living around the corners of his mouth, settling warm behind his eyes.

“You’ve got really nice hands,” Quentin tells him, quiet in the early morning stillness. It gets him a suggestive grin, and he can feel himself flush in response, because yes, okay. Eliot’s hands are _big_ and _warm_ and _strong_ , dexterous and sure. Quentin _knows,_ has been reminded very recently, how good Eliot’s fingers feel sliding inside him one at a time. But he also knows how nice Eliot’s hands are to hold, the skin soft and rarely sweaty. He knows how nice it is to be touched by Eliot in general, how careful he is. How kind. “They’re really soft. It’s nice.”

Emotions flicker across Eliot’s face, and Quentin tries to follow the train of them: surprise, then resignation twisting into something unhappy, before the wall slams up, leaving Eliot’s face carefully neutral. Whatever just happened, it wasn’t what Quentin intended. Some minefield leftover from Mike, maybe? They still tripped over those, occasionally. Twisting Eliot’s hand in his, he brings it up to press a kiss to the center of Eliot’s palm, because fuck that guy, honestly. Fuck anyone could find themselves presented with Eliot’s fragile trust not and feel like protecting it was the _most important_ thing they could do.

“You know,” Eliot says, and there’s a weird quality to his voice, a distance, that Quentin’s heard once before. _I’m going to tell you something deep and dark and personal now_. It makes something drop a little in Quentin’s stomach. “Where I grew up ‘soft hands’ would have been an insult. On anyone, really, but especially on a man.”

Quentin’s never given a lot of thought to where Eliot grew up, honestly. Everything about him seemed so metropolitan, so _New York_ , that Quentin had kind of assumed they grew up across the Bay from each other. One wild happenstance away from stumbling into each other earlier in their lives. Twisting their fingers together, he squeezes Eliot’s hand a little. “What do you mean?”

“I grew up on a farm,” Eliot says tightly, like he’s bracing for something. His eyes flicker away and then back, like he can’t quite make himself hide from this. “My parents were farmers. I’m from Indiana.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes, because well– that’s unexpected. But also not– something Eliot should be bracing against. “Well. Um. That sounds like something you’d absolutely hate?”

“Yeah,” Eliot breathes out, on a laugh, looking relieved, a little. “Yeah, I fucking hated it, Q, you have no idea. Me and my soft hands were not meant for farm life.”

“I really did just mean you’re nice to touch,” Quentin promises, which for some reason makes Eliot laugh again.

“It’s not something I– tell people. Margo knows, because she was my secrets partner in the trails. Beyond that, the last person I told was... Mike.”

Oh.

“Fuck him,” Quentin says, seriously, rolling over so they’re face to face, so he can look Eliot square in the eye. “I want to know your secrets, El, and they are _not_ going to make me think less of you. They’re not going to make me treat you differently, and they are certainly not going to make me _cheat on you_.” 

“I wasn’t really worried you would,” Eliot says brazenly, but– something in his face still looks pinched tight. Unhappy.

“I like you so stupid much,” Quentin admits, settling his palm flat along the span of Eliot’s ribs. He can feel the expansion and contraction of Eliot’s chest under his palm with every breath, the beat of his heart. “Whatever this story is, you can tell me. Whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m not sure there’s much story to tell,” Eliot replies, and it _feels_ like a lie, but not a malicious one. More like a lie Eliot’s telling himself. “It’s just not a great way to grow up. When you’re... you know. Me.”

“I like that you’re you,” Quentin says seriously, nuzzling in close so he can press a kiss to Eliot’s mouth, feel the scrape of his stubble. “I want to know more of you.”

“You get how that’s fucking terrifying, right?” Eliot asks, a little strangled and sharply, brutally honestly. 

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, because he’s seen why Eliot’s walls exist, hasn’t he? At least part of why. This is just another piece of the puzzle. The best he can do is tuck his head under Eliot’s chin, snuggle up to him, let Eliot’s limbs wind around him hesitantly until they’re cuddled in close. “Just– I want to talk to you always, okay?”

“Okay,” Eliot agrees, voice soft, like maybe for once he actually believes it. “Maybe not when I have to leave for Spain in 4 hours.”

“Ugh, 4 hours,” Quentin complains, rubbing his face in against Eliot’s neck. “That’s so soon.”

“I know, baby.” God, still with that fucking swooping feeling, every single time Eliot calls him _baby_. He kind of hopes it never stops. “It’s only two more weeks.”

“Two weeks is doable,” Quentin repeats, humming a little as one of Eliot’s lovely, soft, not-farm-work-hardened-at-all hands sinks into his hair, like it belongs there, tucked just under the curve of Quentin’s skull.

“Totally doable.”

Four hours later, squished into a window seat on the midday train back to Jersey, Quentin’s phone buzzes where he’s got it tucked next to the edge of his book.

**(From– El) 12:34pm** **__**_Hello from Spain! There’s sun and sand and cell phone service here._

He grins down at his phone, stomach swooping happily. No cell phone service at Brakebills might honestly be the worst part of this summer. He barely even noticed it, when the majority of the people he cared about were on campus with him, but it put the distance between them this summer into sharp relief.

**(To– El) 12:36pm** all you can ask for from a vacation really :P

**(From– El) 12:40pm** **__**_Oh, you have no idea. I’m going to bother you so much. You’ll be sick of me._

**(From– El) 12:40pm** [picture attached]

The picture is of Eliot, grinning broadly, and Margo, glaring into the camera like she can melt it with her eyes. They are both, unsurprisingly, unfairly gorgeous, drenched in sunlight and backed by a bright blue sky. Longing tugs sharply in Quentin’s chest, which isn’t– it was his _choice_ not to go with them, and he doesn’t regret it. Not really. Sure, dinner with his dad was probably going to be weird tonight, as he tries to figure out how to talk about this little trip without including ‘ _He gave me his dick one inch at a time and I fucking lost my mind for it’_ but–

How many more awkward dinner conversations is he really going to get? Does he have any to spare, anymore?

Brushing his thumb against the side of the phone, he drinks in Eliot’s smile, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the Margo’s soft curls against his shoulder, the glow of her skin. _These are my people_ , he thinks, looking down at the phone. _They’re not going to drop me without warning_.

Swiping open his camera app, he spends about ten minutes trying to take a selfie that doesn’t make him look like a troll or a neanderthal. He ends up with something tucked in sideways against the window, the scenery outside the train rushing past. It’s not winning any awards for world’s sexiest photo by any means, but– it’ll do.

**(To– El) 12:48pm** promises, promises.

Then, as an afterthought, he thumbs open a different text thread.

**(To– High Queen Margo The Destroyer) 12:49pm** lmk me if you confiscate his phone so i don’t worry.

He hits send, and turns back to his book. It’s interesting enough to suck him in again, enough that he doesn’t think to check his phone again until the train slows at the next stop. There’s two messages waiting for him, when he thumbs it open.

**(From– El) 12:50pm** **__**_God, baby, that’s not fair. You’re so fucking pretty, I’m gonna die._

**(From– High Queen Margo The Destroyer) 12:50pm** **__**_Smart boy. That’s definitely going to happen._

Grinning, Quentin turns back to his book, phone held tight against his chest. 

____

Spain is amazing. 

Margo doesn't even have to make good on her threat to take away his phone. The novelty of being able to text Quentin is great, but the time difference is enough to break him of the habit pretty quickly. Besides, he's traveling with his Bambi, the first and forever love of his life. Sharing the adventures with Q after the fact is enough.

It really is just days and days of sun and sand and culture, good food and good drink and good company. They stretch out on a different beach each day, Eliot people watching with the aloof disinterest of the unattainable while Margo lounges next to him in the tiniest bikini she owns, reading Quentin's book. Apparently he'd made tiny, sometimes indecipherable notes in the margins, and she delights in sharing them with Eliot, lightly mocking except that he can see right through it. She's secretly charmed, he can tell, and any lingering annoyance she'd had with Quentin for making Eliot mopey during their summer of nothing vanishes a little more with each penciled in note referencing some trope or other story elements. 

"He must have been taking a women's lit class the first time he read this," Margo chirps merrily while Eliot trails his finger along her arm, watching a group of young men down by the water kicking a soccer ball around. A football. Whatever. "There's a lot of references to Showalter in these notes."

"Sounds like Q," Eliot agrees absently, taking a sip of sangria and watching one of the men whoop and jump on his friends back, bare skin sliding together. "I would have been so much more interested in sports as a teenager if there'd be more tender homoerotism."

"Baby, homoerotism and homophobia go hand in hand, you know that," Margo cooes back, finally looking up from her book. "Especially for teenagers. It's not gay if I touch your butt, as long as I punch you after."

Eliot sighs, tipping his head back into the towel he's using as a pillow. It'll be time to reapply sun-barrier spells, soon, but for now he just listens to the sound of the beach and Margo's breathing, the shuffling of her pages. Maybe tomorrow they can rent kayaks, travel out to the islands and explore a little. 

Days they lounge away on the beaches, but nights they lose in clubs and parties. They go dancing, actually dancing, a couple times. There's a specific delight in the way they can move together, the rhythm between their bodies. Margo is an excellent dancer, and knows Eliot as well as he knows himself, her tiny frame in his arms feeling natural, an extension of his own being. 

"There'll never be another girl for me, Bambi," he murmurs to her, late in the night, hips swaying together while she smiles up at him, bright as the sun. 

They don't fuck after that, and it's notable because last year they probably would have. Drunk and high and skin hungry, he would have buried his face between her legs until she came wet and messy against his jaw, would have let her wrap her tiny fist around him and buried his nose in her hair, desperate and hungry just to feel anything at all. 

Now, they fall into bed together, but it's just to sleep. Eliot wakes up on his stomach with her arm around his back, and reaches out to touch her, curl her lose hair around her ear while she sleeps. Beautiful, precious girl, bright like fire and sharp as ice. His perfect match, this girl who'll never love a boy, who'd never ask him to give her more than this. Last summer, he'd been sure that he'd never need anything but this. How could he ask for more, when having her seemed so improbable. 

Who the fuck was he to ask for two soulmates? 

He slips out of bed, mouth cotton-dry and head pounding, maybe a little too drunk still to be hungover yet. Fishing his phone off the nightstand and a pair of sunglasses off the table, he slips out onto the balcony in the early morning light. The sun is rising out over the water, painting the sky pink and golden, and he swipes open the phone, taking a picture of the spectacle. It's not half as beautiful as the real thing, rendered in tiny little cellphone pixels but he sends it to Q anyway, settling down in a chair to watch the sun rise, warm breeze tugging at his robe. 

He hadn't really expected a reply, but his phone buzzes in his hand anyway. 

**(From Cutie Q) 5:47am** **__**_wow_

**(From Cutie Q) 5:47am** **__**_i'm not sure if this means I need to go to bed or that you shouldnt be up yet. isn't it like 5am there?_

Eliot looks down at the phone, weird ache in his stomach that has nothing at all to do with the brewing hangover. 

**(To Cutie Q) 5:48am** Probably both. I'll go back to sleep once the sun's up, spell the windows dark. Why are you still awake?

The three little typing bubbles pop up, and Eliot smiles a little, leaning back to watch the sun rise, already anticipating a long winded response. The water reflects the dazzling colors of the sky and this. This is what magic should feel like. This is what Quentin keeps saying it is. But when the phone finally buzzes in his hand, there is no long winded reply.

**(From Cutie Q) 5:53am** **__**_Insomnia? It's hard to sleep here._

There's a flash of memory behind his eyes, Q curled small and sweet, dead asleep around Eliot's pillow, the naked curve of his shoulder exposed to the cool air. Sleep smoothed out the worry lines on his face, made him look younger, happier, calmer. The ache in Eliot's stomach redouble, thumbs hovering over the screen of his phone. What the hell could he even say to that, besides _come, come to us, come here and let me fall asleep next to you. I'll even come get you, just–_

Because that's a good idea. Swallowing, he types instead: 

**(To Cutie Q) 5:57am** Do you have any of the tea I gave you? Make some of that, and try to sleep okay? 

It's still maybe a little overbearing. He regrets it as soon as he sends it, God, why can't he just– Quentin’s an _adult,_ he doesn't need to be instructed how to be a person. Pushy, overbearing, God, Eliot needed to stop being so much _fucking work–_

The next text that comes in is a picture file: a mug, clearly containing a single bag of magical sleep aid tea, sitting on a counter next to an unfamiliar stove with– a sauce pan full of water. Well. At least he's not _microwaving_ it. 

**(From Cutie Q) 6:02am** **__**_i hate the way this shit smells. who decided a home and garden store would make a good tea._

**(From Cutie Q) 6:02am** **__**_thanks, El. you should get some sleep too._

The sun is really coming up now, and Eliot slides on his sunglasses. Hesitating, he types out 'I miss you' and then stares at it. Somehow it feels like both too much and not enough, _I miss you I miss you I want you next to me, god I'm sorry I can't be a fucking normal boyfriend who wants you a normal amount, I have to be this pit of ugly never-ending need–_

Swallowing a breath, he erases the message and writes out a new one. 

**(To Cutie Q) 6:05am** Sun's up, so I am. Sleep well, baby. 

He slips back into the room, casting a familiar spell to block the light from the sun shining over the beaches. Margo shifts slightly, in her sleep, when he crawls back into bed next to her, but doesn't wake. She just shifts a little towards him, like she's seeking heat, but doesn’t wake up. 

They sleep well into the morning, preemptively resting up for a party Margo had scored them an invite to the day before. It’s a good kind of lazy day, closer to their beautiful nothing than they’ve been able to manage back at the Cottage. Eliot lays with his head in Margo’s lap, watching Spanish TV with the sound off and texting Q on and off, while she reads. She even reads passages aloud to him, though he’s missing the context to really understand what’s going on. It’s just nice to hear her voice, and to relax into the growing excitement, the buzz of an oncoming party. 

Eliot, of course, gets restless before Margo does. He starts getting ready to channel it, but– there’s only so much he can do, in the heat and the humidity of the Spanish summer. His hair will be a wild array of curls no matter what, so he’s better off to try to contain it than make it be something else. And well, cream pants and a light cotton shirt and a vest is about all he’s going to be able to stand wearing, anyway. Experience has taught him to wear a swimsuit under it all, because if he doesn’t he _will_ end up naked in a stranger’s pool, and thank god for magic really, smoothing out any lines the – fairly immodest to begin with – swim trunks might leave in his trousers.

But he’s still dressed, mostly, curls piled up and face on, before Margo’s even half-way done getting ready. 

“I look hot, right?” she asks, which is– kind of an odd thing to hear Margo ask, really. He’s never known her to question that. She’s standing looking at herself critically in the mirror, not at all his hyper-confident Bambi, who Quentin had nicknamed High Queen Margo The Destroyer, in some Fillory reference he didn’t get. Margo had, and it had made her smile like she wanted to chew him a little. There’s none of that now, as she scans the lines of her dress. “Like, hotter than that girl Hector talked to after he invited us?”

“Bambi, we both know you’re gorgeous, but if you want someone to tell you if you’re abjectly fuckable, I can only assume the answer is ‘yes’ based on text clues,” he fires back, confused. “Why are you acting weird about this?”

Margo huffs, rolling her eyes. “You were more helpful about this last summer.”

“I really don’t think I was,” he says dryly, because, okay maybe they fucked, last summer, but that had little or nothing at all to do with how Margo looks in a dress. It had very little to do with how Margo looked at all, and a lot more to do with how she had felt like literally the only solid object in the world. How he couldn’t actually _touch_ anything else.

"You should FaceTime your lover boy, ask him," Margo says into the mirror, as she paints her lips a dark, dark red. Her skin has already gone nut-brown with the sunlight, dark hair still up in rollers and he feels both awed and honored to see her like this. Half-made up and vulnerable, even the boys Margo fucked didn't get to see her like this. This was just for him, and maybe... maybe Q, now, it seemed. As an extension of Eliot. 

“He will just splutter and blush,” Eliot says surely, but he’s already fishing out his phone because, well, any excuse to call Q– “Would you find that validating?”

“Hmmm, yes, I think so,” Margo purrs, turning to look at the back of her dress in the mirror.

Well. It’s around noon in New Jersey right now, might as well give it a shot.

The FaceTime call takes a minute to connect, but Q does pick up. Eliot finds himself mostly looking at shoulder and a stretch of wall, the phone jolting around a bit as Quentin gets settled sitting somewhere. "Hey," he greets as his face comes into view, smiling his little no-teeth smile, the one that just dares to tease at his dimples and the crinkled at the corners of his eyes. It's hard to see much, through the little phone screen, but Quentin's hair is tied back, shorter whisps escaping containment in the front, and he seems to be sitting in a stairwell. 

"Hey you," Eliot calls back, and he's grinning like an idiot, he can see it in the little preview window. Absolutely stupid grin. "This a bad time?" 

"No," Quentin says with a shrug. "I'm helping Dad clean out the attic, but he went to try and find something in the garage so I'm just waiting."

"Planes?" Eliot guesses, because he's heard a lot about planes in the last month. 

Quentin laughs, a little sheepish. "No, this is all my shit. The planes live in the garage. We're like... hauling through fake swords and action figures up here. And like 12 different 'kids learn magic tricks' kits. Even I'm a little embarrassed about how dorky I am, right now."

"Oh, baby, that's your best feature," Eliot lies blatantly, because Quentin's best feature is his smile. Or his eyes. Or his soft, soft hair. 

"Thanks," Quentin says dryly, looking a little sheepish. "What are you guys up to? You have the party tonight, right?" 

“Yep,” Eliot agrees, looking back to Margo, who’s looking at him fondly in the mirror. He smiles back at her, happy, god, with the two of them at his fingertips how could he not be happy? “We’re getting ready now. Margo needed an opinion from a man who has interest in lady bits, that is the real point of this call.”

“When has Margo needed a man’s opinion for anything?” Quentin breathes out, almost a laugh, and he looks embarrassed, but not– unhappy. God, his nose is– Eliot misses every single fucking line of his face, _god_ , it’s been– not long enough probably, but his cute little nose– “Well, token bisexual guy aquired, I guess.”

Grinning, Eliot flips the camera around so Quentin can see Margo in her slinky little shiny dress, heel-less with her hair in rollers. “What do you think, does she look hotter than some other random hot girl who might talk to you at a pool?”

“Yeah, I mean, I especially dig the like– grandma hair things,” Quentin’s voice echoes, tinny from the phone speakers, and he’s not really blushing but he’s also fully smiling, with dimples.

“You’re a brat,” Margo sing-songs back to him, and Quentin’s giggling, and Eliot’s whole chest feels– warm–

“You’re like. Of course you’re hot, Margo, you’re always insanely hot. You’re way hotter than any girl who would ever talk to me at a party. And like– terrifying, so please don’t– I mean, I respect you so much–”

“There we go, that’s the reaction I wanted,” Margo says, pleased, eyes twinkling mischievously. Then tilts her head at her reflection. “What do you think, too much titty?”

“Unless you’re going for ‘modest’ is there such a thing as ‘too much titty,’ really?” Eliot replies lazily, watching Quentin’s face shift, his smile settle.

“Hmmm, you may have a point.” She grins, shark-like, and Eliot falls in love with her all over again. “What do you think, Little Q? Is there such a thing as too much titty?”

“Um,” Quentin splutters, and Eliot grins down at his phone, watching Quentin duck and try to hide behind his hair, which he can’t do with it up in it’s little bun. “Am I a bad feminist ally if I say no? Like– as a guy who... you know...”

“Likes tits? Honey, we know, you dated Alice,” Margo quips, turning businesslike back to the mirror to begin taking her rollers out. “You do take ‘go big or go home’ to heart with both your girls and boys, don’t you?

“To be fair, I didn’t– actually know that, before I started, with Eliot,” Quentin mutters, and god, now he’s blushing, isn’t he? Cute little thing. Eliot kind of wants to lick the heat from his cheeks.

“Bullshit,” Margo says dryly, twirling a spiral curl around her finger to get it to lay the way she wants. “There isn’t a single physical kid who hasn’t gotten flashed some nutsack by Eliot’s various robes.”

“Listen, I didn’t say _I_ was going for ‘modest,’ did I?” Eliot asks righteously.

Quentin snorts. “Baby, no one would ever accuse you of that.”

“Wounded. You wound me,” Eliot sighs, rolling dramatically over on the bed so he’s splayed out, looking up at the phone over his head. And– okay, he’s not above a little vanity, who is, it’s a good look for him, curls a wild mess on the off-white of the hotel duvet. Carelessly sexy, you might even say. God, he would love to be able to _do_ something about that, this constantly low-level horniness that just– rears up, every time he thinks about Quentin’s solid hands or his soft silky hair or his cute little cock or his surprisingly shapely ass–

“You need to stop looking at me like you want to eat me, I have to go move Star Wars toys with my dad in five minutes,” Quentin says, fond.

Eliot grins, tucking his free arm up under his head. “That doesn’t do it for you?”

“God, we better hope not,” Quentin huffs out, but he’s smiling, soft and pleased. “I should go. Have a good time at your party.”

“It’s me, baby, of course I will,” Eliot agrees, light, thinking– _it’d be better if you were here, letting me make space for you where you don’t think you belong._ “I’ll call you tomorrow, fill you in on the details.”

“I can’t wait,” Quentin says, and somehow– Eliot believes him. 

Hector's party is at a little villa overlooking the beach, and magic tingles over Eliot's skin the moment he steps on to the property. Which isn't hugely surprising, Magicians tend to find each other in Eliot's experience, but he hadn't known that walking in. Margo seems unsurprised, at his side, scanning the crowd with her usual predatory smile. But there's an edge to it, a nervousness which is very unlike her, like this afternoon when they were getting ready. Something else going on, he realizes suddenly. God, he should have put it together sooner. 

"Okay, what's this about," Eliot asks, grabbing Margo's arm and steering her towards the edge of the patio so they can talk under their breath. "This guy's a Magician, is that why you're acting like you suddenly give a fuck what anyone thinks of you?" 

"He's not just a Magician, he's a cryomancer," Margo purrs back. "Can't you feel it? In the air? That's not just AC, baby."

God, fucking– of course. Of course, her _stupid_ dissertation. "So, what, get him to fuck you and he'll check your homework?" 

"I am allowed to _fuck whoever I want,_ for _whatever reason_ ,same as you," Margo hisses, wrenching her arm out of his grip. "If you'd been paying attention when he talked to us–"

"He didn't," Eliot snaps, an irrational kind of irritation building inside him, "talk to _us,_ Margo. He looked at me for three seconds then spent 20 minutes talking to you under his breath. And I figured, what the hell, she's allowed to flirt, so I _left._ And you didn't even notice."

"Of course I noticed," Margo hisses back, vicious and biting. "You went to talk to Q–" 

"He's my boyfriend," Eliot snaps. "And you were busy. What was I supposed to do?" 

"Flirt _with me_ , maybe? Do we always do? You don't have to get your dick wet to charm people, Eliot, and this guy could really help with my research–" 

"Oh fuck your research, that's not what this is about," Eliot hisses back. "You don't like that I have a boyfriend, you've _never_ liked that. You couldn't even see how fucked up I was over Mike because you were _so convinced_ I was better off without him."

"Q isn't Mike," Margo says, a dangerous coolness in her voice. "I want to be really clear about that because you shitty fucking attitude is _not_ his fault. He's my friend. It's not his fault you're so far up your own ass that you can't see the sunlight–" 

"You're unbelievable," Eliot hisses. She opens her mouth to volley back, but he twists away from her, suddenly unable to hear it. They can fight about this later, when they're not in public. 

He snags a cocktail off a serving tray on his way past the pool, and down it in two swallows. It barely even has a chance to taste like anything, the burn of alcohol a good distraction from the jittery feeling bouncing around in his skin. Her fucking _research_ – There’s a tray with champange flutes, and he takes one of those too, smiling perfunctorily at the pretty twink holding it.

“Anything more interesting than bubbly at this party?” he asks, and the twink’s eyes sparkle like his champagne.

Eliot doesn’t remember much after that. 

____

"You should break up with me," Eliot tells the rim of the toilet, eyes and nose and mouth all running on the wave of another bout of nausea. At least he’s mostly dry heaving now, but spit and tears and snot are still pouring out of _everywhere_. God, he's leaking _so much_ , fuck. 

"Why should I do that?" Quentin ask, voice tinny and small through the speaker phone, but he's so– fucking soothing, like his voice specifically designed to smooth down Eliot's twisted feathers. Longing for him stabs sharply between Eliot's ribs, and he wants–

He wants Quentin’s hand rubbing between his shoulder blades. He wants Quentin smoothing the hair back off his brow. He wants to be _touched_ like he's something worth–

Like he's worth something. 

So he’d called him, instead, not thinking about the fact that it’s just after 4am in New Jersey, or that Quentin would have to sit and talk in hushed voices while his fucking– dying father slept somewhere nearby, listening to Eliot fucking– puke his guts out.

"Because I ruin everything I touch," Eliot moans, quiet, probably too quiet to be picked up by the phone.

But Quentin hears him, he must, because he says thoughtfully, "You know, my mom would tell you I break things."

"You don't," Eliot says, automatically, twisting his head to look at where his phone is balanced on the edge of the tub. For the millionth time, he wishes he could see Quentin’s face instead. "You fix things."

“It’d be nice if I could,” Quentin says, sounding wistful, and guilt stabs hard again in Eliot’s stomach. “El, what’s going on, really?”

"Bambi and I had a fight," he admits, stomach rolling. He manages not to dry heave, this time. "We went to the party last night, and Margo apparently knew this guy was a cryomancer and wanted to get like– insider info? And I kind of..."

"Freaked out," Quentin fills in, voice soft, "because you're worried about finding a topic for your dissertation?" 

Fuck. "Yeah," he agrees, fresh wave of tears streaming from his hot sore eyes. "And I was so mad at her, and I– drank a lot, and I think I did some coke? I don't. I don’t really remember. I don’t really remember what I did, but I woke up here alone, and I can’t find Margo and I’m calling you at four in the fucking morning while I throw up in a toilet because I’m a bad person and terrible boyfriend."

"You're not a bad person or a bad boyfriend," Quentin says way more gently than Eliot deserves. 

"I am," Eliot moans, with the kind of dreadful certainty that hurts all the way down. "I drink too much and I definitely do more drugs than I should. I get fucking mopy when you're not around, like somehow I deserve your attention more than anyone else. I’m selfish and I don’t think about what’s good for you–"

“That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard,” Quentin cuts in, and it’s so hard to read the tone of his voice over a call but he doesn’t sound angry. “You think about me all the time, Eliot. Literally, you think about my well-being more than I do. You just went a little too hard, it’s okay, you just need to slow down a little. And honestly, that’s like– worse for you than it is for me.”

"That's not the point–" 

"It is though,” Quentin cuts him off, “It is the point if it’s making you feel like a bad boyfriend. Eliot, do you think I'm not a sad sack of shit when you're not around? I definitely am. You're allowed to have needs, baby. And as for the rest of it, I don't know, do you drink too much? Maybe. But it's never gotten in the way of you being able to be there for me."

"Not yet, but you don't know what my dad was like."

"Well– I guess that’s true. If it's something you need to deal with, we can deal with it together. Baby, you’re coming down and it’s rough and you’re hungover on top of it, but I don’t think that’s anything I should be mad at you for," Quentin says, voice quiet. 

"But you deserve better than this. Better me. You deserve someone who can– understand how you feel about shit with your dad because they actually have some concept of what liking your father might feel like. You deserve someone who can read the books you like without getting headaches. You deserve someone who doesn't look at a mistake waiting to happen and think 'that’s a solid way to ruin a good thing before it gets taken away from me.'" Eliot can hear the hysterical edge to his own voice, and braces against that careening feeling of flying out of control. "You deserve better than me, Q, and I guess I'm just waiting for you to realize it."

"But I want _you_ ," Quentin says, quiet and emphatic. "I want you because you make feel safe, and seen, and appreciated. Because you are a _good person,_ even when you can't see it. Because you take care of me _all the time_ , and you've been kinder to me in the year that I've known you than people I've known all my life. Because you make it seem like being with me is easy, and it's _not,_ Eliot, I know it's not. But you don't make me feel bad for needing you, and I'm so sorry I haven't given you that back in return."

"I– you haven't done anything wrong," Eliot sniffles, nose running. "You're not– I like that you need me. It's nice to be needed."

"You're allowed some of that too," Quentin says, gently. "I want to talk to you always, okay? That doesn't just mean when you’re at your best. It also means when you're–" 

"Throwing up in a toilet," Eliot fills in dully. 

"Or a bush. Or a garbage can."

"Jesus," Eliot sighs, "I'm a mess."

"A little, but who isn't?" Quentin voice is _so fucking kind, how is he so kind?_ "Drink some water, sweetheart, and get something to eat, then go find Margo. I'm sure you'll be able to work it out."

"Yeah," he sighs, sniffing again. "You're really good at this, Q. Taking care of people."

"Sometimes. When I’m not lost in my bullshit. Which, you know," he lets out a laugh, a little bitter. "Is about a 50/50 shot, there. But thanks."

As it turns out, Eliot doesn't actually need to go find Margo. She finds him, before he's even managed to drag himself up off the bathroom floor, leans against the door frame with arms folded. "I'd say you deserve this," she says, voice clipped, surveying the whole mess of him. "Karma, bitch."

"You're not wrong," he sighs, leaning his head back against the cold porcelain of the tub. Her brows wrinkles in confusion, like she hadn't expected him to agree. "I'm sorry, Bambi. I flew off the handle." 

"Well. I probably should have read you in ahead of time," she admits, stepping into the bathroom. Her posture is closed off still, but now she looks more worried than angry, which just makes him feel. Worse. "And for the record, I like Q for you. I did know how fucked up you were about Mike. I just– don't know how to help, with that kind of thing. But he did, he helped, and that's a big part of why I like him for you. And he makes you happy, I'd have to be an idiot not to see that."

"I'm going to break it," Eliot whispers, sticky and sore. "I'm going to break it and I'm going to break us, Margo, and I'm not going to be able to graduate because I'm not going to be able to write a dissertation and I'm going to end up right back where I was 3 years ago."

"Hey, listen to me," Margo says, crouching down until she's eye level, balanced on her heels. "You're not going to break us. Ever. I'm not your boyfriend, we are never going to just _break up_. And I'm not going to let you fail out either, even if I have to rip that paper out of you taint first. We got through the fucking trials together, we can survive anything."

It makes him laugh, and wet and snotty though he is, she lets him cuddle in against her. "Really, what can be worse than being forced to wear school issued long johns?"

"You're damn right," Margo agrees, scratching her nails up and down his back. "And for what it's worth, I don't think Quentin’s going to drop you either. He's a stubborn little bitch, remember? When has he ever given up on anything, ever, in his whole dumb life?"

She's right, of course. 

It's easy to feel like he doesn't deserve them, their love and support. It would be so much easier to self sabotage than it would be to take a minute and catch his breath, and see what he has: a best friend, who loves him, and a boyfriend, who misses him. And maybe he doesn't deserve them, but they deserve the best version of him that he can muster. 

And if he can't be that person all the time, well. That's hardly going to be a surprise to them, is it? 

But it is kind of a surprise to him, how much he wants to be that person; how badly he wants to be someone Margo conspires with, how much he wants to be someone Quentin leans on. He wants Margo's secret softer self, her hair in rollers and no makeup on. He wants Quentin’s trust, the way he hands over something so– so personal and dangerous as " _I like it, when it's you."_ Eliot _wants_ to be a person they can rely on, and that's kind of the most shocking thing of all. He wants to be the person they think he is. 

Which doesn't make it easier, or make the way his stomach drops with dread any less uncomfortable when he wakes up a few days later to a text from Quentin, sent early enough to be midnight on the east coast.

**(From– Cutie Q) 6:24am** **__**_dad collapsed. waiting in the hospital rn, but I'm not sure if we're gonna stay here or go see a specialist._

**(From– Cutie Q) 6:26am** **__**_fcuk, el, jm so scared. im not ready for this._


	2. July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given the state of the world right now, I do want to warn people that a section of this takes place in a hospital. If you would prefer to skip that, you can search down to the paragraph beginning with "Everyone’s worn out..."
> 
> Thank you all for your patience waiting for this update. I appreciate your kind comments and encouragement so much, they truly mean the world to me. Sending love to all of you as we cling to our fandom for community. <3

In the entire collection of Eliot’s fear, which is vast and expansive and could fill– a fucking library, probably, volumes and volumes full of abject terror, there’s a tiny sliver, a single bookshelf (that he tries desperately never to look at, lest he will it into existence with fucking magical thinking or something) which contains subsets of imaginings labeled ‘Quentin in the hospital’. 

The first of these wisps of thought were birthed after the stupid fight with Penny, which had earned Quentin a broken forearm, an official warning in his Brakebills file, and Penny’s grudging respect. A few more had populated after a study session melted down into a full blown panic attack about halfway through the first semester last year. Eliot had found himself sitting with Quentin in the infirmary, watching him get yelled at by Julia Wicker about medication he was apparently supposed to be taking. After she left Quentin had looked over at him and said, hesitantly, _“Sometimes my brain breaks,”_ and Eliot had– said, heart in his throat, _“Join the club, kid,”_ and gone home afterwards to medicate a bit himself. 

More of those little fears Eliot never looks at had populated, in the handful of weeks of having Quentin as astonishingly, miraculously, _his_. Things he tried not to think about, laying in bed with Quentin’s sleep-quiet face next to his, heart beating under his palm. 

Somehow, all his fearful imaginings had never conjured this: Quentin pale and bleary eyed and drawn, sitting half-folded into the chair in a hospital waiting room. Somehow, he’d never bothered to imagine a scenario in which Quentin was not the patient, but the desperate observer, waiting here lost looking and powerless in the watery sunlight of 5am in the closest ER to Montclair, New Jersey. This feels like a massive oversight of Eliot’s inner fear machine, all factors being what they are. It’s certainly left him caught flat-out, no idea what to say now that the frenetic rushing motion of _getting here_ is done.

‘Here’ being: standing, hovering really, awkwardly in the doorway of this semi-public space. There’s other people in the room, which means Eliot can’t just– rush to him, fling himself at Quentin’s feet and scoop him tenderly up against Eliot’s breast– No, he has to walk, like a normal person, into the room.

“Q?” he asks softly, because Quentin’s 100 yard stare tends to tie directly into his startle reflex and Eliot doesn’t want _him_ to need medical care just because his dumbass boyfriend gave him a heart attack– 

There’s a half second of visible confusion, where Quentin looks at him and doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. Then his eyes focus, and blinking rapidly, as he basically– launches himself out of his chair. “Oh, my god, _Eliot._ ”

Eliot catches him, because well– what is he supposed to do? _Not_ wrap Quentin up and hold him? Decorum be damned, if Quentin fucking needs a hug, Eliot’s going to hug him. “I told you I was coming,” Eliot says, muffled into Quentin’s neck, breathing in the boyish smell of him, stretched all the way up on his toes to get his arms around Eliot’s shoulders. 

“I didn’t think you’d get here so fast,” Quentin mutters, and he seems– disinclined to let go, but Eliot can’t not be aware of the public space, of all the other waiting families watching their little show. 

“Magic,” Eliot says softly, sliding his hands down to Quetin’s ribs to push him back gently. Truth be told, it was only Margo’s level-headedness that kept Eliot from being here three hours ago, convincing him that taking the established portal and then the train from New York was safer in the long run than ripping open an illegal portal in the middle of the hospital. She’d even convinced him to _pack first_ , when Eliot had been prepared to jet off in nothing but his shirtsleeves. “Bambi sends you her love.”

“She’s not mad at you, is she?” Quentin asks, jittery, falling back to sit in the waiting room chair, looking up at Eliot with those big, basset hound eyes. 

“No, sweet boy, she’s not,” Eliot promises, and somehow, miraculously, it’s true. “She’s going to stay for a few more days and work with Hector on her dissertation, and I was cramping her style for that, anyway. She wants me to bring you back to Brakebills soon, though, so she can see you.”

“Yeah, I– maybe,” Quentin says distractedly, looking around the waiting room, then back at Eliot. “How’d you get _here_ though? It’s not visiting hours.”

“Ah, that. I may have Jedi-mind-whammied an orderly into letting me back,” Eliot admits, settling into the seat at Quentin’s side. He’s just wearing a t-shirt, which is very unusual for him even in the summer, and not nearly sufficient for the highly effective air conditioning of the hospital. His skin, when Eliot reaches out to slide his palm down Quentin’s hairy forearm towards his hand, is chilly to the touch. “It’s not entirely ethical, but I don’t really care. How’s your dad, baby?”

“He’s, um–” Quentin stutters, rubbing his free hand along the material of his jeans on his thigh repeatedly, clutching at Eliot’s hand with the other. “His blood pressure was dangerously low, when we got here? They think it’s a reaction to the medication, but they’re. Not sure? I think? They’re running tests, and then– I don’t know. It’s been a couple hours since the doctor came out. They had him on an IV, in case it was dehydration? I don’t know, I don’t know what to ask–”

“Okay,” Eliot soothes, because he doesn’t know what to ask either, but he has a smartphone and the ability to be calm in the face of Quentin’s mounting anxiety. “Okay, take a breath. You’re not going to be helpful to anyone if you pass out too–”

“Fuck you, like it’s that easy,” Quentin half-laughs, near hysterical, and okay, okay, Eliot can do this. 

“Gimme your hands, Q,” He says, soft, quiet enough that they won’t be bothering anyone else in the room. When he’s got both of Quentin’s sweaty palms in his, he squeezes gently. “Breathe in while I’m squeezing and out when I relax. That’s all you have to do right now.”

From there it’s just– counting, steady, in his head, long inhales and longer exhales, watching their hands so he’s not– trying to make Quentin look him in the eye, because that won’t help. This is easy. He learned how to do this months before he knew what Quentin’s mouth felt like under his, before he’d learned the taste of his skin– even when Eliot had been halfway to in love with someone else, he’d known how to do this.

_I can be_ , he thinks, looking up at the curve of Quentin’s jaw, the slope of his nose, his pretty brown eyes despite himself, _I can be the person you think I am_. _I want to be_. Quentin, somehow, doesn’t turn away. Just– meets Eliot’s eyes. God, Eliot wants to kiss him– so much. But he’ll just smile, a little, instead, until Quentin’s breathing evens out. 

“Thanks,” Q says, eventually, ducking his head so his curtain of hair swings into his face, gives him something to hide behind. He’s still holding on to Eliot’s hands, though, fingers sliding through Eliot’s, playing with the rings. “Thanks, I just– I’ve been trying to keep it together, but um. I have no idea what I’m doing, really.”

“When do we ever?” Eliot asks, half a joke, but it gets him a dry ironic snort, so– that’s something. “Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?”

“I– Yeah, maybe, actually,” Quentin says, sitting a little straighter. “We took an ambulance here and I’ve been stressing out about how to get home. Can you– If I gave you Dad’s keys and the address, could you go pick up his car?”

“Yeah, of course,” Eliot agrees immediately, because yes, god yes, anything to actually be useful. He rubs his thumbs into the back of Quentin’s hands, feels Quentin relax infinitesimally. “Do you need anything else from the house? Clothes for your dad?”

“No, that’s okay. There’s a hospital bag in the car,” Quentin sighs, finally sitting back a little, tucking his hair awkwardly behind his ear. Q gives him a little half-smile, and asks, “Um– could you get me like– a hoodie, though?”

“I can do you one better,” Eliot promises, pushing in to brush a single, soft kiss against Quentin’s cheek, before letting go of Quentin’s hands. He looks bereft, like he hadn’t realized asking Eliot to pick up a car in the next town over would mean having to let go of his hands, and affection stabs sharply into Eliot’s stomach. He leans down and kisses his temple, soft against his hair. “I’ll be right back, baby.”

It’s a simple matter of slipping into the bathroom and pulling his miniaturized luggage out of his pocket, a couple of tuts and then the correct case is sitting on the tile floor of the bathroom, full sized. There’s a cardigan at the bottom that he wore exactly once while in Spain, one surprisingly chilly nighttime walk on the beach with Margo. Fishing it out, he tucks it into the crook of his elbow, carefully repacking and shrinking the case so it’s pocket-sized again. 

“Here,” he offers, slipping back into the hospital waiting room, lit with sunlight as the inevitable progression of morning comes upon them. “So you don’t have to wait until I get back.”

If Quentin sticks his nose directly into the sweater in the process of pulling it on, Eliot decides not to comment on it. He really should wear more cardigans, Eliot thinks absently as he helps Quentin adjust the collar caught up around his neck, it suits him in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with him wearing Eliot’s clothes. Very English professor meets preschool dad vibes; Eliot would definitely talk to him at the farmer’s market. “Thanks,” Quentin murmurs, pulling the sleeves of the sweater up over his hands, because of course it’s too big. Of course, when he’s the most precious thing Eliot’s ever seen. “It’s warm.”

“That’s the idea,” Eliot agrees, then– hugs him, again, because fuck– why not? When everything is so terrible, why not hug him? 

Eliot slips out of the hospital 10 minutes later, keys in his pocket and Quentin’s goodbye kiss tingling on his skin. 15 minutes after that, his Lyft is dropping him off in an unfamiliar suburban neighborhood, in front of a nondescript two story house in a row of other nondescript two story houses. Only the name ‘Coldwater’ in vinyl letters stuck to the mailbox indicates that this comfortable little green and tan house bore witness to the creation of one of Eliot’s actual favorite people in the whole universe. This– ordinary little house, with its privacy fence and two car garage which is clearly _not_ being used to store a car, since there’s a slate-gray Subaru Outback sitting in the driveway. 

He can– just for a second– imagine a little rough-and-tumble 6 year old Julia Wicker and a shy bookish little boy with Quentin’s soft hair running through this yard– the image is gone as quickly as it had come, leaving Eliot swallowing against the weird tightness in his chest. The car unlocks when he clicks the remote on the key, and well– no point giving any of the neighbors a chance to get concerned about a stranger loitering around in the driveway. And point of fact is, Eliot’s never actually driven a Subaru before, because his own father had made a point of only buying American, so it had all by Fords and Jeeps on their property– and Eliot for one single summer in undergrad, hemorrhaging money for student loans anyway had thought _fuck it_ and bought a little two-door Hyundai specifically because it would piss off his father– 

Anyway, he’s heard good things about Subarus. Good, reliable, gay cars. He climbs in to find his knees are pushed up to his chest, though, so apparently the elusive Ted Coldwater doesn’t have much more going for height than Quentin does. It’s– weird, to feel that same chest-tightness, as he slides the driver’s seat back, adjusts the mirrors. Weird, probably, to feel like he’s inserting himself somewhere he doesn’t belong. Not like he’d be able to drive all the way to the hospital and back with his knees in his armpits, anyway. 

He decides, on a whim, to swing by Starbucks on his way back to the hospital. Might as well avoid having to use more unethical mind control and actually arrive near visiting hours this time. So by the time he and his little paper tray of coffee cups make it back to the waiting room, Quentin’s no longer there. Quick detour through a nurses station to ask for directions, and Eliot finds himself being shown into a recovery room, three separate beds surrounded by curtains. 

Pulling aside the middle one he finds Quentin, leaning arms folded against a set of drawers, and the man that could only be his father, balding and sturdy looking even in the face of his sickness, with a sad-kind face that that he’d passed on to– Quentin looks up at him, still wearing Eliot’s cardigan, some of the tension around his eyes visibly relaxes, like just seeing that Eliot’s there is enough. 

“Hey,” Eliot says, raising his little tray of coffee cups in greeting. God, they have the same eyes, this is– “Hi, Ted, I’m Eliot.”

“Hey, kid,” Ted says, in that genial, _dad-way_ that surely only exists on sitcoms, and like– fuck, how often does Eliot call Quentin ‘kid’ ironically? That might need to stop, _now–_ “This wasn’t exactly how I pictured meeting you.”

Which is– a lot, to digest, really, the idea that he’s been a topic of conversation oft-discussed enough to have a _pictured meeting_ in place, and– Well, of course, Quentin had come up to visit him, and they talked and texted, so naturally it must come up, if, you know– you talk to your parents– “Yeah, me neither,” he agrees, shooting for sympathetic and possibly way-overshooting it into hysterically squeaky, _dear lord_.

“Usually I imagined I’d be wearing pants,” Ted says, causal as anything, and there’s a moment of ringing silence before–

“ _God, Dad!_ ” Quentin groans, mortified, and Eliot’s– laughing, startled and loud, because _oh_ , right, this man raised _Quentin_. 

“Well, I might be able to help with that,” Eliot says cheerfully, shrugging the hospital bag off his shoulder so it lands on the ground with a dull thump. “Also every TV series I have ever watched tells me hospital coffee is terrible, so I thought I’d get ahead of that.”

“Oh, god, it _is_ ,” Quentin agrees, still _bright pink_ which is objectively– one of Eliot’s favorite looks on him, but the context does sort of ruin it. “Thank you.”

Eliot’s preoccupied liberating Quentin’s black coffee from the tray, isn’t really paying attention as he walks over to take it. It catches him by surprise, when Quentin goes up on his toes to push a short, soft kiss against Eliot’s mouth, which is the only reason he–

–flinches, hard–

– away, eyes flicking towards Ted before he can stop himself and then away before he can actually let himself _see_ anything there, away to the side then up to Q, who looks– for a second– 

–hurt? Which, no, god _no_ , that’s not what– but then Quentin’s expression changes, fading into an understanding that’s somehow _worse_. Quentin’s fingers curl in against Eliot’s vest and he’s so close that Eliot can _smell him_ , feel his breath as he says, “It’s okay, El. He doesn’t care,” and then very pointedly kisses Eliot’s cheek. The corner of his mouth. Okay. Not ‘ _my very special friend, Eliot’_ then. Not that he’d really thought– but it was one thing to know something in theory, and to have to see it– right? But he’ll turn, and press a soft hello kiss to Quentin’s mouth because– because he’d be an idiot not to take kisses, if they’re on offer. Wouldn’t he?

“Thanks for the coffee,” Quentin, says, standing back to less PDA-esque distance.

“Oh, if you think that’s impressive, you should see the whole car parked outside,” Eliot fires back, with all the rakish bravado he can muster. Which, it turns out, is still quite a lot.

It’s well past noon by the time they get Ted checked out. The best running guess on the low blood pressure is still the medication he’s taking, so they’re adjusting the dosage. Eliot had paid attention, as best he could, but it really felt more like his job was just to– hold Quentin’s hand, and be ready, when the time came, to go fetch the car. Ted had allowed himself to be wheeled out in a chair, but that streak of familiar Coldwater stubbornness presents itself the moment they’re off the sidewalk. 

“ _You passed out_ ,” Quentin hisses mulishly, “to the best of my knowledge Eliot hasn’t blacked out in the last 24 hours, so he’s driving,” and sets his jaw. And well. Counting only the last 24 hours, he’s not even wrong about that. Maybe going on 48, at this point. Eliot doesn’t bother to stand and let them glare at each other until someone cracks a tooth, just circles around the car and gets in the driver’s side.

The drive back through Montclair is different in the middle of the day, busier and longer, less of the picturesque peacefulness of earlier. The ambiance of the drive is definitely enhanced by the stubborn silence coming from father and son, so alike in their conviction that it actually manages to be funny. 

“I promise I’m not making designs on your car, Ted,” Eliot says, when the tension has become more than he can bear. “Since we’re not even supposed to have cellphones on campus, I’m sure I couldn’t get away with hiding a whole sedan.”

“Well, there’s that worry solved,” Ted sighs, and it’s in remarkably good humor, all things considered. The tension is a little less awkward after that. He even gets to have Quentin’s old elementary school pointed out to him, which is _delightful_ if for no other reason than how hard it makes Quentin stutter and blush.

Everyone’s worn out, by the time they get back to the little green house on its quiet street. Ted’s stubbornness has finally given way to exhaustion, and he allows himself to lean on Quentin’s shoulder a little as they make their way into the house. Eliot watches Quentin help Ted up the stairs, feeling suddenly... overwhelmingly useless. He’s been in motion since he woke up this morning, not accounting for the moments of quietly letting Quentin lean on him. And even that was its own kind of task, trying to make himself as calm and solid and not-at-all out of his depth as possible, in the face of this very terrible thing. 

Shaking himself, Eliot follows the Coldwaters into the house. The front door opens onto a living room, comfortable if a bit dated and bland in the furnishings, with a straight shot through into the kitchen. Quentin’s already guiding his father up a set of stairs on the far side of the room, which definitely doesn’t seem like a three man job, so Eliot leaves them to it, walking forward to scope out the rest of the downstairs.

Off to the side of the staircase, there’s the downstairs bathroom, complete with department store towels in blue and green tones, simple but thoroughly serviceable. It almost strikes him as odd that there’s no– fucking bible verse cross-stichings on the walls, set to mock you while you’re trying to take a shit in peace. Because of course there’s not, this house is different down to the bones of it than what Eliot knew growing up. More poking reveals a sparse guest room and and the door to the garage, all connected by a hallway auspiciously lacking in decorative crosses. There’s a little half-dining room off the kitchen and glass sliding doors out onto a back porch. The lawn Quentin has been diligently mowing and bitching about all summer sprawls out from there, housing some faded plastic chairs and a rickety shed and a propane grill; a true picture of the suburban outdoors.

A quick glance around the kitchen yields a small pile of dirty dishes on the counter next to the sink, and a stove which could use a cleaning. He can’t make any single part of this suck less, but those little tasks, those are all things that he can do. Could probably do it magically, even except he’s shrugging his jacket off already, unbuttoning his shirtsleeves and rolling them up so he can start soaking the dishes. Then he empties the drying rack, in order to have some place to put the clean dishes, poking around gently to find the homes of the pans and tupperware and and plates. 

Then while he’s at it, might as well stack and shuffle the mail on the table, so it’s all in one place rather than scattered across the surface. Dishes wash up easy with the soaking done, then he can take the wet sponge to the stovetop and the newly cleared table. He’s in the process of emptying the kitchen trash and replacing the bag, when Quentin finally stumbles back down the stairs, coming up short on the threshold of the kitchen.

“El... you don’t have to do all this,” he says, staring around at the now mostly clean kitchen. 

“It’s no trouble,” Eliot promises softly, setting the tied off trash bag by the door to take outside and going to wash his hands off at the sink. “How is he?”

“Resting,” Quentin says quietly, shuffling over to perch on one of the kitchen chairs. “The doctors said he should be– I don’t know if it’s ‘better’ but back to how he was, in a couple of days. Assuming there aren’t any more treatment complications.”

He sounds _exhausted_ , bone-deep tired that matches the bruises under his eyes. Wiping his hands off on the towel hanging from the stove, Eliot goes over to him, carding his fingers through Quentin’s hair. “How about you, have you taken your meds?” he asks, as gently as he can because this is– a prickly subject, sometimes. But Quentin just shakes his head mutely, listing forward until his forehead is resting against the bottom of Eliot’s sternum. “Okay. Have you eaten anything in the last 24 hours?”

He’s pretty sure he knows the answer to that already, but it helps to have some confirmation when Q shakes his head again, breathing out a soft. “No.”

“Okay,” Eliot says, feeling a sense of purpose coalesce behind his breastbone. “Here’s the plan. You go take a shower, put on something more comfortable than jeans, and I’ll make you something to eat. Then food, meds, nap. Okay?”

“You don’t have to–”

“Baby, I’m here already,” Eliot says, cutting him off gently. “I might as well be useful. Okay?”

“Okay,” Quentin sighs, but he seems reluctant to let go, and it’s only then that Eliot really realizes– he hasn’t kissed him yet. Not really, without having something to prove.

“Hey,” he says gently, nudging Q back until he can crouch down in front of the chair. Even with Q sitting, they’re almost equal in height like this, leaving him barely looking up at all into Quentin’s face. His brows are pinched, mouth turned down, but when Eliot touches his cheek, he leans into it. “The crisis is past. You can exhale now.”

“I’m not sure I can,” Q says quietly, face tilting into Eliot’s palm. “I might fall apart and not be able to put myself back together.”

“All the king's horses and all the king's men,” Eliot echoes back, dry, and the corner of Quentin’s mouth curls ever so slightly. “You’re not alone here, darling. Remember?”

“Yeah.” 

Quentin leans in, when Eliot moves to kiss him. It’s– as exhausted as he seems, frankly, but warm and Quentin-eqsue and right. His nose presses into Eliot’s cheek just the right way, and he smells like exactly what Eliot wants, the shape of his mouth under Eliot’s fits just as it should. When Eliot pulls back, Quentin looking at him with this cracked open, tender look on his face that makes Eliot want to flinch for him. God, does he know how dangerous it is to show your whole soft heart like that? “Thank you,” Quentin says quietly, under his breath, “for coming to get us. Sorry you had to cut your vacation short.”

“Only by a couple days,” Eliot says carelessly, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the apple of Quentin’s cheek. “Come on. Shower, and then food, then meds, then nap.”

Eliot starts to poke around in the cupboards again, as Quentin stumbles his way back upstairs. While the pantry isn't exactly _bare_ , there is definitely a lack of imagination in the staples present in it. Like, Eliot thinks with a kind of soft wry amusement that aches somewhere behind his breastbone, like the man who owned these cupboards had spent years stocking them for a picky 9 year old, and never really broke the habit. Even once said 9 year old out grew some of his pickiness. 

Still, there are options, and Eliot pokes through them looking for something he can throw together in approximately the time it will take Quentin to convince himself to get in the shower, and then convince himself to get out of it. There's a box of shell mac'n'cheese, and Eliot swipes that, along with a can of peas and some breadcrumbs. In the fridge he finds a package of unopened, pre-cooked chicken, the kind people throw on salads, and that'll work too. Fishing a couple of the pans he just washed out of the drying rack, he puts the pasta on to cook, then gets some butter melting in the frying pan, and drains the peas. Sprinkling the breadcrumbs in the melted butter, he takes this as an excuse to practice tossing, pleased quietly to himself that he manages to avoid losing too many crumbs out of the side of the pan.

The sound of the shower shuts off right as he's draining the pasta, and he moves quickly from there, tossing the chicken into the empty pasta pot to warm up before mixing up the powdered cheese sauce, and adding back in the pasta and peas. Two bowls are easy to locate in the cupboard above the drying rack, and by the time Quentin's stumbling back down the stairs, barefoot in a hoodie and joggers, Eliot's sprinkling bread crumbs over the two bowls. 

"That smells good," Quentin says, voice still _achingly_ tired, as he drops to sit on the couch in the living room, which is apparently an acceptable place to eat. That tracks, with the amount of clutter scattered on the kitchen table. 

"Should go down easy, anyway," Eliot agrees, coming over towards the couch with bowls in hand. Passing one to Q, he sets the other down on the coffee table long enough to pull off his tie and shrug off his vest. Then he settles down next to Q, close enough that their thighs are touching, Quentin sitting cross legged with his feet tucked up under him.

The meal is perfectly serviceable, salty and crunchy and a bit sweet from the peas, a bit meaty from the chicken. Q hums a soft note, swaying his warm little weight closer to Eliot's side. "'S good," he mumbles distractedly, wet hair hanging in his face, and Eliot's stomach wriggles in response. 

He ignores the feeling, taking another bite of his own food. The taste keeps trying to drag him backwards in time, to places and memories he's been refusing to visit for years. He ignores it, concentrating on the feeling of Quentin's thigh against his. He's in a suburban house in New Jersey. He's in 2016, where he's as in control of his life as anyone on the planet can be, with magic and a best friend and a boyfriend. Mac'n'cheese is not going to take that away from him.

"On a scale of 1 to 10, how much dry cereal have you been eating?" Eliot asks, teasing, and Quentin rolls his eyes, throwing an elbow in Eliot's direction.

"Like, 2, maybe. It's not like I'm here by myself most of the time," Quentin grumbles, but if his play fighting leaves him even closer to Eliot, well. Lucky Eliot's left handed. He loops his right arm around Quentin's shoulders, bowl balanced on his lap so he can keep eating. "We have been doing a lot of take out, though."

"I noticed the Chinese in the fridge," Eliot agrees, running the tips of his fingers over Quentin's shoulder, down his arm. He swallows, ignoring the way his chest is doing something funny– seizing, sharp and tight behind his breastbone. Whatever shampoo Quentin's using here is different than what he uses at school, and Eliot fights the desire to chase the scent, bury his nose in Quentin's hair to find the differences. He takes another bite of food instead.

"Yeah, should probably throw that out," Quentin says dully, pushing around the remnants of food in his bow. He's gotten through most of it, some noodles and a couple chunks of chicken left. Eliot has, genuinely, no idea how much food is enough food for taking antidepressants, but– well, with alcohol, or some other kind of pill, this would probably be enough to keep you from throwing up. Especially if you're Q-sized.

Gently, he takes the bowl from Quentin's slack grip, nudging him with his knee. "Meds," he prompts, standing to bring their bowls into the kitchen as Quentin fishes a little orange bottle out of the pocket of his hoodie. Eliot fills a glass of water at the sink, brings it back to him wordlessly as Quentin taps out his little Abilify pill, swallows it down with the water.

He's already turning back towards the kitchen, full of that itchy motion, that drive to _do something useful_ , when Quentin catches his hand. It pulls him up short, and he turns around to find Quentin looking up at him with those big, needy, sad eyes. "Stay?" Quentin asks softly, and Eliot's stomach swoops.

"Okay," he agrees, dropping back down onto the couch. Quentin pushes towards him, determined little burrowing creature that he is, and Eliot lets himself be maneuvered until he's on his back on the couch, feet just hanging off the end with an armful of warm boy. Quentin's a tight little ball of stress and sadness against him, but nuzzles in intently until his face is buried in Eliot's neck, clingy and clean-smelling. 

"Thank you," Quentin says, muffled against Eliot's skin. "For– all of this."

"You can stop thanking me," Eliot says, softly, sliding his palms along the span of Quentin's back. Under his hands, Quentin's relaxing in increments, muscles losing their chorded up tension. "I want to be here."

"Can you stay for a little while?" Quentin asks, a hesitancy in his voice that makes Eliot feel guilty, somehow. That Quentin thinks anything else in Eliot's stupid summer of nothing might be more important than this. "I mean, we didn't talk about you coming here, only me going to Brakebills, but–"

"I'll stay," Eliot cuts him off, scratching lightly along Quentin's spine in the way that makes him shiver, always. "For a couple days at the very least. If your dad doesn't mind?"

"He won't," Quentin says, surely. "We usually do a cookout on the 4th, maybe you can stay until then? Then I think I'm contractually obligated to give you back to Margo."

"Sounds good, baby," Eliot says, sluggishly. 

His body thinks it's 9pm, still stuck on European time, and with Quentin warm and snuggly on top of him, getting sleepier by the second, it's hard to fight the desire to give in to sleep. Maybe he can just– rest his eyes for a second. Just a couple of minutes, just until Q's asleep, then he'll get up and take the trash out instead of just leaving it by the door, figure out what kind of meals he can throw together with what's in the house and decide if he needs to go to the store. Just a minute or two, to luxuriate in having Quentin in his arms, relaxed and sleepy.

When he wakes up, hours later, it's dark outside, and there's a quilt spread out over them. The clock on the VCR says 9:05, which is definitely a lot longer than he’d intended to stay on the couch, but– Quentin clearly fucking needs to sleep. And maybe Eliot does too. “Q,” he whispers, and gets a mumble and a little nuzzle for his trouble, which– is so fucking sweet it makes Eliot’s stomach ache, a little, but– “C’mon, baby, you’ve got a bed in this house. Shouldn’t sleep on the couch.”

Quentin has a bed, but once Eliot does finally manage to coax him up, he just stumbles blearily with Eliot towards the downstairs guest room. “Honestly, Dad won’t care,” Quentin breathes, faced with Eliot’s hesitancy, “I’m 24 years old and I sleep like shit without you. Please, El, I’m so tired.”

And well, it’s kind of hard to argue with that. 

___

The 4th starts off with Ted pulling Quentin aside and asking, quietly, under his breath, “He does actually know what he’s doing when it comes to the grill, right?”

Like somehow _Eliot_ might be the one who’s going to accidentally light the lawn on fire. Like Eliot’s ever lit anything on fire _by accident_. “He grills like twice a week at school,” Quentin says with an eye roll, looking out the kitchen window to where Eliot’s inspecting their shitty old propane grill. “He doesn’t even need to, there’s food in the dining hall. He’s just like that.”

“Okay,” Ted says, skeptical, and Quentin would laugh if he weren’t kind of distracted by Eliot bending over. 

“He’s probably gonna bitch about the gas, though,” Quentin calls out belatedly, but Ted’s already stepping out onto the porch.

Eliot does, and it’s– Quentin keeps getting struck by how weird it is that it’s _not weird_. Sitting on the porch swing at the back of the house with a glass of spiked lemonade (thank you, El) and watching his dad and his boyfriend bicker goodnaturedly about charcoal versus gas feels somehow entirely _normal_. It’s been aggressively not weird all week, so aggressively not weird that it’s kind of– confusing, almost. How wildly different this experience has been to the one girlfriend he brought home in college, in a half-defiant attempt to prove– _something_ , what, that he was– fine? An adult? Making it in the big city on his own, like the girl wasn’t really about 70% more Julia’s friend than his girlfriend anyway?

The fact that he’s actually fucking _sleeping_ again definitely contributed to an overall improvement in the atmosphere of the house. The rest of it is just– Eliot, effervescent, lighting up Quentin’s drab gray world. Even if all he’s doing is inspecting cooking equipment, occasionally throwing a smile up at Quentin like he’s just happy to see him.

"Are you going to transfigure it into a charcoal grill," Quentin asks, half a glass of lemonade later, smiling a little as Eliot hops the couple steps up the back porch towards the porch swing. 

The face he makes says he's considering it. "Too much math," he eventually says with a sigh, and Quentin feels a little volcano of affection start in his chest, reaching up to catch Eliot's hand in his, tug him down onto the bench. 

And the thing is– Quentin would probably crawl right up into his lap, is the thing. That's how aggressively not weird he feels about the whole situation. But it hasn't exactly escaped his notice, how gun-shy Eliot is about overt displays of affection that are more than friendly. And it's not like he doesn't understand where that hesitancy comes from. They've even talked about it, a little, tucked up quiet in the darkness of the guest room, knees overlapping under the sheet as Eliot haltingly explained his childhood, and his parents, and his queerness. 

"Mom probably would've–" he'd said, fitfully, stops and starts, "I don't think she would have given a shit, to be honest, except like. We all had to live by my dad's worldview and for her that meant, like– being blamed for me being the way I am, because she... used to sing to me as a baby, and taught me to cook. Like making roast chicken gives you the unmanageable urge to suck dick."

"Well, that's not even a little true," Quentin had said softly, scratching his fingers through the dark coarse hair on Eliot's chest, touching him, touching him as much as he could. "I've never roasted a chicken in my life, and we both know I'm the one gagging for it." 

Eliot had laughed then, pressing his face into Quentin's face, nose to nose and mouth to mouth. "I kind of am too, baby," Eliot had murmured, touching Quentin neck, God, Quentin nuzzled in until Eliot's broad palm was cupped over his throat, warm and safe. "I want you so much sometimes I can't stand it."

"How lucky for you that you have me, then," Quentin had murmured, and Eliot had looked– _wrecked_. 

So it's not like he doesn't _know_ why Eliot jumped out of his skin that day at the hospital, why he kind of treats anything more than holding hands like having his dick out in the living room. Quentin _gets_ it, he just– doesn't particularly _like_ it, because even in the sticky July heat, he pretty much just wants to stick his face in Eliot's neck and never come out again. But he's certainly not going to force the issue, because God, Eliot's _here_ , he's talking about grilling with Ted in the summer sun and making Quentin cocktails and that's just. That's so much more than Quentin’s ever had before. 

So when Eliot drops to sit on the bench beside him, arm up along the back, Quentin does not, in fact, climb up into his lap. He does lean into his side, though, ready to move away if it seems to make Eliot uncomfortable. But it doesn't, he just relaxes in against Quentin’s side, loose in the morning sun.

"He gave ground in the chicken marinade so I probably shouldn't transfigure his grill," Eliot says with a sigh, and right, this ritual of performative masculinity that Quentin doesn't even remotely understand. They're still talking about that. 

"What was going on with the chicken again?" he asks, hesitantly, and of course it makes Eliot laugh at him.

"Don't worry about it, Cutie Q," Eliot says softly, under his breath, arm slipping off the back of the bench to squeeze Quentin's shoulders. God, Quentin wants to wrap around him so _fucking much_ , this is torture.

"Right," he agrees, absently, looking up into Eliot's handsome face. 

"I should probably shave, before this thing gets going," Eliot says distractedly, and Quentin feels– a little bereft, honestly, because the dark shadow of beard growth on Eliot's jaw is new and _good_ , and he really hasn't gotten the chance to appreciate it yet. 

"I really don't think Joe from Dad's tennis club is going to care if you shave or not," Quentin says, probably a little too transparent, because well–

Eliot grins at him, a little hot and too knowing. "We don't do personal grooming for other people.” He says it like he's still got a hope in the world Quentin might internalize this, but he also– 

Noses in. For a soft, scratchy kiss. It's short and chaste, by being-kissed-by-Eliot standards, but it's also– _warm_ and _good_ and Eliot even manages not to look over at his dad when he's done. Just smiles softly, wider when Quentin reaches up to touch his cheek, fingers against the prickle of his beard growth. 

“I’ll grow a beard for you some other time, honey,” Eliot says, soft and _tender_ , like he meant it to be a joke and just– missed. Quentin rubs his thumb along the scratch of Eliot’s jaw, and tucks _‘honey’_ into the little place in his heart where _‘baby’_ and _‘darling’_ and _‘sweet boy’_ live. A protected little corner labeled ‘Things Eliot Waugh Calls Me Because He Likes Me.’

"I have ideas," Quentin says, quiet under his breath, and Eliot's eyebrows go up, delighted. 

"I will wait until we have 48 hours of free time and privacy and _then_ I will grow a beard for you," Eliot revises, and Quentin giggles. Tucks his face in against Eliot's neck just for a moment, where he's been wanting to be all morning. Eliot smells like skin and sun and fabric soap, none of the usual spice of his aftershave. Not yet. 

"Guess I can wait," he sighs, and then with a truly great amount of effort, pulls himself out of the gravitational well of Eliot's body. "Well, if you're grooming, you better get a move on. We've only got two hours until people get here so that _might_ be enough time for you to shower." 

"Brat," Eliot grumbles, but he's smiling, and he presses a kiss to Quentin’s temple when he stands, which is– him trying, Quentin knows. He's trying really damn hard, to unlearn his own instincts. When Quentin glances over at Ted, as Eliot’s footsteps fade into the house, he’s not looking up, but he is smiling– like maybe he had been. Like maybe he’s happy about what he saw. It’s– not weird. It’s kind of nice, actually, to just– actually be himself around his dad, maybe, and for once in his life not feel like he’s doing it wrong somehow.

It does not, in fact, take Eliot two hours to get ready. All teasing aside, 45 minutes later, Eliot's in the kitchen. Curls damp and face smooth and all polished up, he stands grating fresh ginger into sugar and lemon juice, while Ted boils corn at the stove and Quentin pours chips from bags into bowls– the only task he can be entrusted with, apparently.

People show up early, but people always do. The Coldwater Family Cookout has been a staple of the neighborhood as long as they've lived in this house, as far back as Quentin can remember. Even the year his parents had separated, it had happened, though really all he remembers from the 4th that year is hiding with Julia in the toolshed. Back when they were small enough to fit, and young enough to pretend that a broken snow shovel handle was a sword, they’d hidden there and imagined all the people outside were Lorians coming to get them. The gathering is smaller now than it had been back then. Neighborhoods change, and kids grow up, and people move away. But 4 or 5 of the other families on the street stop by, one of them new enough to the suburb to still have two young kids tagging along looking bored at their heels. 

Quentin sticks by his dad, as much as he can, until Ted gets tired of him hovering and says, with aggravated affection, “Quentin. Buddy. I need to be able to move my elbows.” Then he goes to sulk on the porch, because _fuck me for trying to help_ , right? Eliot’s charming everyone by the grill, what else is Quentin supposed to do, if he can’t help his dad? The whole reason he’s _here_ is to help his dad. It’s not like he’s particularly eager to awkwardly evade his way around talking about fucking _magic school_ with his neighbors, so might was well just– try to stay out of the way, then. 

He doesn't expect to see Julia.

Which is an oversight on his part, really, isn't it? She's come to every cookout since he was six years old. They'd even driven out here from New York with James for the past couple years. But well– she's been kind of gone all summer, hasn't she, apprenticing with a mentor somewhere in South America, chasing down some strand or type or source of magic. Nevermind that first years never got apprenticeships, that _second years_ rarely got them. Hence Margo apparently taking her fate into her own hands via her boobs or whatever. But no– not Julia Wicker, who is the smartest and the coolest and the brightest and the best–

"Q!" she calls up the porch, all delighted, and she's fucking sparkling, practically, tanned and highlighted from the sun, as she bounces up to hug him.

"Hey," he greets, and it shouldn't be awkward, god, it shouldn't be, they've been best friends all their lives. "I wasn't– I didn't think you'd make it?"

"Alec wanted to see his kids," she says cheerfully, her voice a familiar smokey rasp. "So we came back to the States for a couple days. He dropped me off in New York on his way to the Los Angeles portal." 

"Oh, that's good." Alec was– her mentor, probably. She's probably told him that, right? That’s why he’d just be expected to know it. "How's the, uh. Apprenticeship going?"

"It's _amazing_ , Q, you have no idea. There's so much magical history to explore, so many spells that have just been lost to time or to the elements."

"And to colonization? Imperialism?" Quentin says, dry, because– honestly, what would undergrad Julia say to her now, working with a man who takes credit for the “discoveries” of magic done by Native people. _She_ was the one who used to lecture _Quentin_ on intersectionality–

"Well, some of that too," Julia says, shrugging easily, undeterred. "Magicians just went where muggles went. But Alec's on the trail of this whole new kind of casting that's all ritual, doesn't require any verbal or somatic components."

"Do you ever think about how much D&D got right?" Quentin asks, a little distracted, because– god, he's got nothing to offer in the face of _new and exciting magic_. Not when he’s spent his whole summer digging through the attic, sorting out Star Wars figures and 4th Edition Dungeons & Dragons books. "Like– Gary Gygax must have been a magician, right? Magic Missile is an actual battle magic spell, it's like ancient Japanese, it way predates the 80s. And the whole– verbal, somatic, material components thing–"

"Or it's just part of common folklore," Julia says, giving him a suspicious squint. It’s the kind of look she wears when she’s about to lecture him on something, and Quentin’s hackles go up in response before she even gets the words out. "How do you know about battle magic, anyway?"

"Oh– um. Kady and Alice were like, really into it for a couple weeks? It's Kady's discipline, and she thought she was going to get kicked out before the trials, so they were going to like– fight the Dean? I don't know." He frowns, shrugging a little, because Alice had been pretty cagey about it when it was happening, and it's not like _Kady_ was going to tell him what was going on. "But Alice knew I liked D&D so she– she told me."

"They could have gotten seriously hurt doing that," Julia says, frowning, like she's a fucking TA, and god she probably will be, won't she?

"Yeah, well, they didn't, so," he mutters. The awkward silence grows, a little, and he's about to make an excuse and escape and go like, hide in Eliot's armpit or something when she speaks up again.

"So how'd you get Eliot Waugh to come to your dad's cookout?" Quentin follows her eyes over to where Eliot's standing by the grill talking to one of Ted's work friends and Jill from down the street. "I mean, it doesn't exactly seem like his scene."

Which, maybe you would think, if all you saw of Eliot was the front, the act he put on. If you didn't know the man who'd spent the last 3 days cooking meals specifically engineered to be the least unpleasant to throw up, just in case, who's been driving around Montclair to help Quentin run errands, who's been gamely willing to fish things off high shelves in the attic, either with his ridiculously long arms or the easy tug of telekinesis. Maybe, if you didn't know the way that Eliot was always constantly, secretly, desperately, _starving_ for affection _._ Maybe, if you didn't know _that_ Eliot– "Well, he was here anyway," Quentin says awkwardly, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans. The worst part of cookouts was the _heat_ honestly, he missed his long sleeves, abandoned inside with the air conditioning. "I– He came to get us when Dad was in the hospital."

Julia's face goes surprised and then sympathetic, that– _oh no poor kid_ look she gets when she treats him like her little brother, like he's not a full month older than her, like he's not– _an adult_. "Oh, Q, I'm so sorry. We have terrible reception on the expedition, I'm sorry I didn't see your message." Ah, right. There's probably no point in telling her that he texted her a full five hours after Eliot had already _arrived_ from Spain, is there? "It's good that he doesn't have much going on this summer, I guess."

Which– _fucking Julia_ , with her first year apprenticeship, honestly. "He was in Barcelona," Quentin snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. "He portaled back because he's, you know, _my boyfriend_ , so–"

" _What?!"_ Julia exclaims loud enough that Jill's husband looks over at them, concerned. Quentin stares at her, incredulous, because there's no way. No _way_ she didn't know. "What happened with Alice?"

"We broke up," Quentin hisses, turning his back on the rest of the cookout so he doesn't have to watch all of the people who've known him since he was in diapers judge them. "We broke up _forever_ ago."

"So you climbed into bed with _Eliot Waugh_?" Julia shoots back, matching his volume, bending her head down their voices won't carry. "C'mon Q, you can do so much better than a lush like that–"

Anger prickles down Quentin's spine. "He's _third in his class_ ," he shoots back, glaring at her. "He's the most powerful caster in our discipline, from _any_ class, he fucking bleeds magic. Just because he's not–" what, a nerd? "–spending all his time at the library doesn't mean he's not an incredible magician. Or a _good person_."

"Eliot Waugh, who's fucked half the campus? You're supposed to expect me to believe that's what you want?"

"Where's your sex positivity when it applies to queerness, Julia?" She looks a little shocked, like she hadn't spent most of their Women and Gender Studies elective at Columbia lecturing him about sex positivity. As if the problem he had with her and James telling him all about their threesomes had anything to do with his attitudes towards sex, and weren’t entirely rooted in _jealousy_. "For the first fucking time in my life, I actually had _options_ , I had a choice, of course I'm going to choose the person who smart, but is also kind, and funny, and generous, and makes me feel like less of a freak."

Julia shakes her head, looking at Quentin like she doesn't even know him, "You always had options, Q. You're so much better than you think you are."

He laughs, a little strangled, because– fuck Julia, with her apprenticeship, when Quentin had been too fucked up about his _father dying_ during mentor week to even fucking– turn up at half the mentor events. When Margo had dragged him to Welters by the balls and he'd had a fucking– _breakdown_ in the middle of the stadium, it had been Eliot and Margo who'd gotten him home. Eliot and Margo who sat with him all night, petted his hair and held him while he cried out a wad of hurt and lost hope and helplessness. After that, he hadn't even seen Julia until the trials and then only at Brakebills South, briefly, from the shelter of the little cluster of physical kids and Penny. Penny, who spent nearly every day of his first semester telling anyone who would listen how much he hated Quentin, but had closed ranks around him with Alice and Kady, when shit got really bad. 

"I know you don't like my friends," he says, folding in on himself a little and he _hates it_ , hates that he does this, shrinks, hides, runs away– "But Julia... he makes me feel like I'm better than I think I am."

And then he– runs away.

Fucking coward. 

There's a limited number of places he can run away to, given that he's at his father's house, and the entire kitchen and dining room are kind of a free-for-all of people slipping inside to escape the heat or refill up on salads or chips or Eliot's pitcher of spiked ginger lemonade. He dodges around a conversation with a neighbor he barely knows, and darts up the stairs into the implicitly 'off limits' zone of privacy that is the second floor bedrooms. His room looks out over the street, not over the backyard, but he can still hear the chatter of people, voices, music, smell the scent of cooking beef and chicken wafting up from the party. 

God, everything feels so loud. Why is the whole world so _much?_

Sliding down to the floor, he curls his arms around his knees, thinks– _god, why did she even come, if she thinks I'm so– pathetic–_

"Hey you."

Quentin looks up to see Eliot leaning against the door way, Eliot in his shorts and polo shirt, sunglasses pushed up on the top of his head. Memory hits like a visceral reaction, of the day he'd moved into The Cottage, the day they're been assigned their disciplines. Julia had been practically vibrating with excitement, when she came to find him in the dorm he shared with Penny, head-to-toe glowing as she'd explained that her discipline was basically the coolest and smartest and most magical way to be, while the failure of _undetermined_ had sat heavy in his stomach. She didn't even ask what his discipline was, just heard he was heading to the Cottage and made some comment about how no one could get any kind of _actual_ learning done there, with the way those Physical Kids partied, and he should probably try to study in the library. 

Like she hadn't spent most of undergrad dragging him to one party or another, trying her best to introduce him to every girl who'd had her Hogwarts house on her tinder page. 

He'd trudged across campus that feeling of failure growing with every step, caught in the drizzle of rain that turned the afternoon as gray as his mood. A pathetic fallacy, he had thought, turning the corner toward the Cottage. Then he'd caught sight of Eliot, in shorts so short they barely even counted, and Margo in her blue dress and umbrella, laughing with abandon as they grilled in the rain. Eliot had called out to him, delighted and happy, Quentin’s name softening under the Midwestern accent that Quentin had no context to identify yet but only came out when Eliot was particularly uninhibited. They'd been happy to see him, excited to have him with them– beautiful and untouchable as they seemed, they’d wanted him there. The feeling of failure had melted away before he even realized he was smiling. 

He barely saw Julia after that. He'd been partnered with Alice during the trials, and well. When you’re forced to strip naked and admit the darkest parts of yourself to someone you already have a crush on, that can only go a couple of ways. But it had been Eliot, and Margo to a certain extent, who had been the steady figures in his life. It’sEliot who is here now, coming to check on him where he's hiding from a party, when once that had been Julia's job. 

“Hey,” he replies, looking up at Eliot as he pushes into the room, slowly enough that Quentin could stop him and tell him to leave if he wanted, and then with purpose when Quentin doesn’t.

He's struck by the weirdness of seeing Eliot in here, in his childhood bedroom. He hadn't really noticed but they haven't spent much time up here in the last few days. It wasn't like Quentin's tiny twin bed would be much more comfortable to squeeze all 8 miles of Eliot into than the couch was, so he'd been sleeping in the guest room, and Quentin just– couldn't bring himself to sleep alone, when he knew Eliot was in the house. This room was tiny, and held very little of interest anymore, unless you were looking for an archeological study of Quentin-through-the-years. No books that matter to him anymore were left in this room, and his laptop had migrated down into the guest room the morning after he had. All that was left in here were ghosts.

“It’s floor time, I see,” Eliot observes, nonchalant, dropping down to sit next to Quentin on the floor, back to Quentin’s twin bed so they’re both looking into the room– at the open closet and the desk tucked in next to it.

“It’s always floor time,” Quentin replies dully, because well. How often has he sat on the floor in front of whatever couch or bed or chair Eliot was currently reclining or passed out on? 

“I have noticed that about you,” Eliot agrees, settling comfortably with his hands folded on his stomach, long legs crossed at the ankles. “I figured it was a part of your general inability to sit in a chair like a human.”

“Yeah, fuck off,” Quentin quips back, but he can’t– not lean into Eliot, set his cheek against the ball of Eliot’s shoulder, feel the sun-warm heat of him. 

Eliot hums, softly, tipping his head over sideways until his cheek is resting on Quentin’s hair. “I saw you talking to Julia,” he says after a couple beats of comfortable silence. “I was going to come over and rescue you after I finished correcting your dad’s friend Gray’s wrong options about beef. But you disappeared.”

“It’s pointless to try, Gary’s been eating his burgers well done since I could walk,” Quentin says, unwinding a little, like he always does when Eliot’s touching him. “I think it was the 90s mad-cow scare? I don’t know.”

“Just eat fucking chicken if you want your meat well done,” Eliot gripes, and he’s so– he’s _so Eliot_ , god. Quentin slides his hand onto Eliot’s thigh, settling over the line between cloth and skin above his knee.

“Julia’s liking her summer apprenticeship,” Quentin fills in, tracing the tip of his index finger along the exposed strip of Eliot’s thigh, soft fine hair and velvety smooth skin. “Also she didn’t know we were dating, though I’m pretty sure I told her.”

“You did. I remember, we ran into her in the dining hall and you had like– a fucking massive hickey, I was so proud.”

“Well, it didn’t stick, apparently.” It feels so stupid, to be upset about this. Upset that Julia is, of course, outperforming him in every imaginable way, academically and professionally and magically, but that she couldn’t even be bothered to remember this one– this one good thing he’s gotten, out of this last year of mediocrity. 

“Well, that’s bullshit,” Eliot says with a shrug, jostling Quentin’s head a little. “If she’s your best friend, she should give a fuck about what’s going on with you.”

Was she? Was she still? This whole month of summer, it wasn’t Julia he’d been missing. “We’ve been drifting apart for a while. I just– It’s weird, because like– I guess I didn't really realize how much being here, in this house, for a long period of time was going to make me feel like I’m sixteen again. Which is probably universally true, about going home to your parents’. And it’s just so weird, because seeing her was _nothing_ like it would have been when we were kids. Or even like, last year. I feel like I’m sixteen, but I also really, _really_ don’t.”

“I bet you were cute at sixteen,” Eliot says softly, and Quentin snorts.

“I was kind of terrible at sixteen,” Quentin admits, because well. Even he can see that. “I was like– one suicide attempt in and still kind of in the worst of it, with no magic and one fucking friend in the whole world who I couldn’t even appreciate because I was so busy being a mopey shit that she didn’t want to kiss me.”

“I don’t know if it helps,” Eliot says seriously, reaching down to rest his hand over Quentin’s on his thigh. “–but me at sixteen had already killed someone, and was in the process of driving away _my_ only friend in the world in a desperate bid to deflect attention away from the things I’d been told to hate about myself. Like it didn’t matter if I was stealing money from my dad and taking his truck up to Indianapolis to lie my way into a gay bar as long as I kicked the shit out of someone else for being a fag. Like that might help when Dad kicked the shit out of me for it later.”

“Jesus, Eliot,” Quentin breathes, gnawing horror unspooling in the pit of his stomach.

“Nobody likes being sixteen,” Eliot says, voice light, flippant, like he hadn’t just, again, dragged out the darkest, softest, most vulnerable parts of himself to make Quentin feel less alone. “So I can’t exactly fault you for being unhappy feeling that way.”

“You’re fucking incredible,” Quentin says softly, twisting around so he can– throw a leg over Eliot and settle in his lap, get his arms around Eliot’s shoulders, touch the soft hair at the back of his neck. “I know you don’t even see it, how brave you are, but you’re _incredible_ , Eliot.”

Eliot’s face shutters, a little, something closing off. “I’m really not–”

“You are. It’s okay if you can’t see it,” Quentin says, gentling his fingers through the short hair behind Eliot’s ears, touching his scratchy sideburns, the line of his jaw. “But I’m gonna keep telling you.”

Eliot’s eyes flicker away, overwhelmed, licking his lips. “Wasn’t I supposed to be making you feel better?” he asks, a little strangled. “How did this become about me?”

“I don’t know, I think they go together,” Quentin muses, hands sliding down Eliot’s neck to brace on his shoulders, broad and solid and bone-sharp. “I think that’s part of us going together.”

“Q,” Eliot breathes, sounding– wounded, shakey, uncertain, and god. Quentin’s never been more certain of anything in his life. He’s got certainty to spare, when it comes to this. 

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” Quentin asks, rubbing his nose along Eliot’s nose, Eliot’s breath sending tingles across his skin as Eliot’s big warm palms slide up his back and up and up and then drag down again.

“Yeah, baby, it’s always okay,” Eliot murmurs back, and that’s not exactly true is it? Except Eliot had kissed him this morning on the porch, in the sunlight of suburban New Jersey, in front of Ted like it was no big deal, even if it was.

Quentin kisses him now, soft and sweet and slow, and tries to put– everything, just everything into it. How fucking gratefully he is, for how hard Eliot’s trying. How much, _how much_ it means, every time Eliot says ‘you’re not alone’ and then– _proves it_. How _safe_ it feels, this little bubble of rightness that he’d thought was just unique to Eliot’s dorm at Brakebills, but that apparently they can make anywhere, anywhere they have the privacy to be together like this. 

Like maybe the safety was in Eliot’s hands, his arms, his smile all along. 

Eliot’s palm settles, warm against the back of his neck, right where it belongs, as Quentin pulls away to just nuzzle, rub his nose against Eliot’s nose, god. He brings his hands up to touch the corners of Eliot’s jaw as they breathe together, touch his chin as Eliot’s cupped palm pulls him in again. As Eliot _kisses him_ , really kisses him, not just a tender press of mouths but this hot, deep, sucking thing that makes Quentin’s spine melt and his brain go quiet, makes his mouth fall open, helpless, to let Eliot inside.

And god, he didn’t mean– when he climbed up into Eliot’s lap, he hadn’t been thinking, _gotta get him between my legs,_ he’d just wanted to be able to be face to face, touch him. But now all Quentin can think is how open he feels like this. As Eliot holds him close with one hand and pets down the line of his spine with the other and just– kisses him, hungry and hot– in the way they haven’t kissed since that single night on the empty campus, when Eliot had given him– all of it– and it’s–

God, Quentin had been upset, hadn’t he? He’d been up here, hiding, not because his dad was outside and occupied but because he’d be– feeling lost and lonely and wrong. But it’s basically impossible to feel any of those things, with Eliot kissing him like he’s starving, hand sliding up the back of Quentin’s shirt to press into the skin on his back, warm and _big_ and– He’s getting hard, Quentin can feel it where he’s fucking _straddling Eliot_ , stiffening up right, up against– pushing up against the tender achey space between Quentin’s legs, rubbing against his balls and his own stiffening cock. God, it was– it made his _mouth water,_ even as Eliot was practically fucking it with his tongue, Jesus, _Jesus_.

“Shut the door,” Quentin begs, mouth against Eliot’s mouth, hot animal hunger turning in his stomach, god, this _man_ , his _body_ , Quentin just– wanted him, all the fucking time. Needily, desperately.

There’s a spike of magic through the room, a sing of power tugging on Quentin’s oversensitive nerves, as Eliot– carefully, and with great control, eases to door shut. Not a slam but a gentle click, as Eliot tongue draws hot and wet along the seam of Quentin’s _mouth_ , and then the _shnk_ of the lock clicking into place. 

And fuck, maybe Quentin had been upset, but it was hard to remember why, when he could slide a hand into the soft curls on the back of Eliot’s head, very carefully not pulling, and let himself be kissed. When he could touch, gently, the hot familiar beautiful stretch of Eliot’s throat, duck down to kiss it, set his mouth against the hot skin that smelled like aftershave, now, yeah, but mostly like Eliot. Dragging his nose and mouth and cheek and tongue and lips against Eliot’s adam’s apple, and feel hot about it, specifically, in the way he got hot about Eliot’s stubble, or the soft scratchy hair on his chest, or the stiff hot line of his long, beautiful, thick, uncut cock–

“Can I just–” he starts, distracted, but Eliot’s already nodding, just– gamely agreeing to go along with whatever, like he has been all week, like he’s just– happy to be there, sleeping in more clothes than either of them would really like in the downstairs guest room, trying to keep their hands off each other because they’re not the only ones in the house prone to night-time wanderings. It’s not nighttime now, and they have the buffer of a whole party and a locked door between them and any _other people_ , and when Quentin turns and tugs and pushes wriggles them around, Eliot just goes until he’s flat on his back on the floor of Quentin’s childhood bedroom.

“Did you have a David Bowie poster on your wall in high school?” Eliot asks, distracted, and Quentin– laughs, like he hasn’t wanted to laugh in _weeks,_ faced pressed against the triangle of skin in the open V of Eliot’s polo. 

“Eliot,” he murmurs, mouth against that soft, wonderful skin. “How are you still figuring out that you are _exactly_ my type, when it comes to men?”

“I don’t–” Eliot starts, then visibly loses his train of thought as Quentin pushes up his shirt to mouth at the warm vulnerable skin of his belly. And god, the smell here is– different, _better_ , earthier and muskier, makes that mouth-watering _hunger_ crawl up Quentin’s spine, god, _god, I want it, want to suck it, want–_

“Want it in my mouth,” he breathes out, and god, he’d be fucking– embarrased about how whiney-needy-small he sounds, except Eliot never, ever, _ever_ acts like that’s something to be embarrassed about. “Please, El, can I have it, can I suck it, please?”

“I’m having a really hard time remembering why I should tell you ‘no’,” Eliot laughs out, reaching up to rub his hands down his face like, he’s– overwhelmed, god, Quentin likes him so fucking much. Bites, softly, at the skin under his belly button, because he likes him _so fucking much_. Dragging his hands down his face, Eliot draws in a deep breath, belly pressing up against Quentin’s mouth with the movement of up, and says, “Yeah, baby, you can have it.”

Quentin’s fingers are shaking a little, as he goes unbutton the fly on Eliot’s shorts, which are– really not designed to accommodate an erection, apparently, but– he maybe gets distracted, a little, rubbing his face against it, feeling the blood-warm heat through the fabric and the stiffness against his mouth and cheek and god– settling down between Eliot’s legs, like he fits there, belongs there. With Eliot’s thighs keeping him contained (safe) and Eliot’s hand in his hair keeping him anchored (safe) and the bulk of Eliot’s body making him feel small (safe), he can just– let go. Burrow in until the cloth falls away and then it’s all just skin, flushed with blood and hot with it, Eliot’s lovely dick, hard– _just for me_ – and shiny wet where the tip’s peeking out of the foreskin, where Quentin’s mouth–

Belongs. Right there. Tongue soft against the head, sliding gently under the fold of skin, chasing slickness, wetness, sharp salty musky taste, the little bit of stretch in his jaw just to open up for the head, as above him Eliot makes– just– the softest little sound. The muscles in his hips and thighs going tight as he fights the urge to move, arch, probably, up into Quentin’s mouth. All of Quentin’s skin prickles, hot, achey, as he suckles gently around the head, tongues the slit, just to follow that taste, until more of it comes welling up, and Eliot breathes out “–God, _Q–_ ” and fits his other hand down into Quentin’s hair too.

He pulls off to watch, fascinated, god it’s so– as he slides his hand down the shaft of Eliot’s cock, rolls the skin down with it, then– it’s so– leans in to lick, get him wet, run his tongue along the veins, sloppy, down to the base– it’s so _fucking_ – where Eliot’s balls are trapped by the waistband of his underwear. Which can’t be comfortable really, so Quentin, gets them free, and then gets his mouth _there_ too, where the sharp-salt-musky smell is strongest. And it’s here that Eliot’s claim of _‘we don’t groom for other people’_ is possibly the least believable, with how _soft_ and _nice_ it is, to gently– it’s so fucking _good_ – take Eliot’s balls in his mouth. 

“Baby, _your mouth_ ,” Eliot groans out, and he’s trying to be quiet, isn’t he because– god, there’s a party, there’s _people_ , god, why does that make Quentin so– make his eyes water while he’s just completely unable to stop himself from just– impaling himself on Eliot’s big beautiful dick. It’s too much too fast and he gags a little which is never pleasant except– he just– eyes wet, nose wet, mouth wet, he _wants_ it. So fucking hungry he can’t stand it. Just let himself go blissfully quiet, with it on his tongue.

Eliot’s hand cups the back of his skull, achingly tender, and Quentin could fucking– he could fucking cry, except then he’d have to stop working Eliot’s dick into the stretched-wide aching chasm of his lips-mouth-throat, a little rocking motion that drags the head of Eliot’s cock against his soft pallate again and again, just before it would hit his gag reflex and– god, he’s not taking all of it, is he? He can’t– he wants to, but he can’t like this, well beyond the point of having the time or the patience or the where-with-all, to fucking– work himself up into opening his entire throat and letting– Eliot’s dick– _all the way inside–_

Whining, feeling– bereft _,_ hesucks and sucks and sucks while Eliot pets at his hair and his cheeks and his throat, dragging in deep sucking helpless breaths. “I can’t believe,” he groans, achey, god, Quentin wants _his voice, his body, his fucking_ soul _inside me_ – “how well you take it, baby. I can’t believe it, look at you– you just love it so much, don’t you?”

Mouth full, wet, leaky, Quentin nods, pushing forward to– breathe out– feel the head of Eliot’s dick against the opening of his throat and– breathe in– push, a little, while his mouth waters– breathe out– and above him, Eliot swears, back arching hand flying up to find purchase on nothing, nothing to grab onto but the hardwood floor. He wants, god, Eliot’s balls against his chin, wants his nose against the trimmed dark hair between Eliot’s hip bones, he wants Eliot’s hands in his hair– helping, lovingly pushing, him down; but he can wrap his hand around the base instead, so wet from everything leaking out of him that there’s barely any friction at all

“I’m,” Eliot gasps, petting, petting, _pulling_ , _yes_. “I’m losing my fucking mind, Q, fuck.”

All Quentin can do is moan, because– honestly, fuck, he is too. 

He can fucking– _taste it_ , when Eliot’s about to come, the sharp bitter musk of it, as all his muscles go tight. Quentin reaches up to cup his balls as they draw up, rub gently as he just– lets his jaw go slack and concentrates on not choking on the pulses of Eliot’s come in his mouth. God, Eliot– beautiful, always, but especially beautiful like this, lost and given over to pleasure, the hedonist in his truest form. 

The moment stretches out, taffy-like, as they both catch their breath. Quentin finds himself placing small half-kisses along the skin of Eliot’s pelvis and hips, as Eliot’s fingers pet absently through his hair. 

“God, Q, I–” Eliot starts, and then laughs, tugging a little on Quentin’s hair so he’ll move, so Eliot can sit up and tug and maneuver and manhandle– _yes–_ Quentin up into his lap, so they can kiss. So Eliot can lick his own taste out of Quentin’s mouth. 

Hungry– fucking starving– Quentin kisses back, and kisses back, and lets Eliot’s hand cup his throat, hold him in place while Eliot just– eats at his mouth, soft, and reaches down to cup between his legs with the other.

“So hard,” Eliot cooes, and Quentin can _feel_ the burn of a blush across his skin, and thinks with half his brain ‘ _well yeah, duh_ ’ but can’t actually find the desire to snark back, not when Eliot’s– holding him in place so nicely, kissing him so sweetly, grinding his palm up between Quentin’s legs. “Think you can be quiet if I jerk you off?”

Quentin doesn’t fucking– _want_ to be quiet, he wants– he wants Eliot to fucking fold him in half and fuck him until he can’t, actually can’t control the sounds falling out him. He wants, god– he wants to be full, and he wants to _suck it, still, again, more_ and– “Yeah,” he breathes, pushing forward until he can bury his face in Eliot’s neck, hide there because he’s so– god, he wants _too much_.

Eliot just kisses his temple, though, wraps his right arm around Quentin’s shoulders as he deftly works Quentin’s jeans open with his left hand. Gets his hand inside, oh god, oh fuck, _oh fuck_ , those big warm soft strong Magician’s hands, Quentin _has_ to kiss him or he’s not going to be able to be quiet enough, with only the door between them and–

“I _missed_ your hands,” Quentin breathes, desperate, into Eliot’s mouth, clutching at him, clinging, as Eliot’s fist moves fast and steady and perfect, slick-sounding in the quiet air.

“So messy,” Eliot murmurs, nose against Quentin’s nose, talking right into his mouth, like his hand wasn’t fucking– performing mircles on Quentin’s dick down below. “You’re so fucking wet, baby, look at you. _Look_.”

And Quentin does look, hot and embarrassed, at Eliot’s hand working pleasure between his legs, slick-sliding on his dick with no lube at all, just from– how much Quentin liked it, having Eliot in his mouth. “I– _El_ ,” he sobs, as quiet as he can, almost pleading, because– fuck, he’s going to have to change, before they– _go back to the party, fuck, Jesus_ , put on fresh boxers at least because of the wet spot. Eliot’s hand is just– covering all of him– the whole of his cock disappearing in Eliot’s fist, the head _just_ peeking, only just on the very bottom of a downward stroke. 

Eliot noses him back up, until they can kiss again, and again, so sweet as Eliot just jerks him off, tender, in the midday sunlight. “So wet,” Eliot repeats, as Quentin kisses at him, hungry– soft words spoken right against his mouth. “Feeling so good your sweet little dick can’t hold it all, huh?”

It shoots sharp and hot, a spike of physical pleasure so intense Quentin can’t actually hold on anymore, because– Eliot’s never actually _said_ it before. He’s talked around it, he’s implied it, but never– he’s never gotten the words out, and Quentin just– feels so fucking– _wanted–_

Exactly as he is–

He doesn’t mean to bite Eliot’s lip when he comes, but he does. A sharp, surprised, pained gasp, from Eliot, and Quentin makes himself let go, gasping “ _Sorry_ , sorry, El, god,” even while currently being bowled over by one of the most intense orgasms of his life. 

“It’s okay,” Eliot promises, half a laugh, petting Quentin’s hair back with one hand and working his cock gently with the other. “It’s okay, baby, you’re fine. You’re perfect.”

“I–” Quentin breaths, shaking, a little, reaching up to touch Eliot’s mouth, his bitten red lower lip, running his thumb along it. Eliot hums, kissing the pads of his fingers, warm hazel eyes and messy dark curls, god. _God_ , Quentin thinks, moving in to kiss, soft and sticky and slow, at Eliot’s lovely mouth, _god, I want nothing but this, exactly this_. Absently, he drags his hands down Eliot chest, just to feel the beat of his heart, while Eliot cups his head, kisses him.

Cups his head with his right hand, not his left, because his left is– sticky. They both pull away with realization at the same moment, giggling into each other’s mouths. Giddy, breathless, Eliot whispers, "Please tell me you have tissues in here."

"My boyfriend has been over 300 miles away all summer, of course I have tissues in here," Quentin says dryly. He can feel Eliot's laughter vibrating against his lips. 

"Poor boyfriend. He must miss you a lot."

"Yeah," Quentin agrees, feeling tender down to his core. Reaching up, he touches his fingers to Eliot's chin, cups his jaw, bumps their noses together. "Yeah, I know he does."

Later that night, after the party is long done and all the leftover food has been either given away or packed into the fridge, Eliot makes them all drinks for the fireworks. They’ll be able to see them from the back porch, just over the treeline in the backyard. Ted drags one of the kitchen chairs out to where Quentin is settled onto the porch swing, watching through the kitchen window as Eliot moves around the kitchen where Quentin and his dad argued about homework for 15 years. He brings the mostly completed cocktails out onto the porch, and Quentin buries his smile in the sleeve of his hoodie, as Eliot, _Eliot_ , ever the showman, finishes the drinks. 

The final flourish comes in the form of a flame, snapped into life by magic and dancing over the point of Eliot’s thumb, as he squeezes an orange peel over it. The little burst of fire expands out over the rim of the glasses, leaving a haze of smoke condensing over the amber liquid inside. Eliot holds one out with a smile, and Ted takes it with a duly impressed grin. 

“That would probably be a pretty good trick even without the magic,” Ted says shrewdly, taking a sip of the cocktail. There’s a flash, just a second, of nerves across Eliot’s face, there and then gone. It makes something unspeakably fond curl in Quentin’s chest, and he reaches out to hook his fingers through Eliot’s, rub his thumb against the backs of Eliot’s knuckles. “That’s pretty damn good, kid.”

“Thanks,” Eliot grins, sliding into motion again like if he stands still for too long, he might freeze up. Passing Quentin his drink, he sets the plate he’d used to carry them out aside, balanced on the railing of the porch. He’d probably swan off to do something else, except Quentin’s just– not going to let go of his hand, really, unless presented with some damn good evidence as to why he should.

“How did you learn all this stuff?” Ted asks, taking another small sip of his cocktail. He’s not drinking much, really probably shouldn’t be drinking at all, but well. _What’s the damn point of not drinking if you’re dying anyway?_ he’d said, and Quentin had had to escape out onto the porch while Eliot asked him about his cocktail preferences, just to– let Quentin get a hold of himself. 

“I was a bartender in undergrad,” Eliot says lightly, settling down onto the porch swing beside Quentin thigh to thigh, hand in hand. 

“Really?” Quentin asks, somehow– surprised by that. 

Eliot nods. “Yeah, I turned 21 my sophomore year, and well. Bartenders keep better hours than baristas, if you’re also trying to go to class. And every bar in New York is used to dealing with actors, so they’d let me schedule shifts around rehearsals.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that,” Quentin muses, twirling one of the silver rings on Eliot’s fingers, the opal one he always wears. It was, Quentin knows, a gift from Margo at the end of their first year. 

“Well, it’s more fun to let you believe I’m just preternaturally gifted, you understand,” Eliot teases, and it makes Ted laugh, at least, which makes Eliot smile.

“I dunno if I agree with that,” Quentin says, soft, just for Eliot, because– fuck if being allowed to know Eliot, actually _know_ him in more than the Biblical sense, doesn’t feel incredibly special. Eliot just squeezes his hand, and Quentin sighs, dropping his head on to Eliot’s shoulder. “I guess I have to give you back to Margo, tomorrow, huh?”

“Hm, probably,” Eliot agrees, lazy, long legs rocking the porch swing a little. “She’s back from Barcelona, got into through the portal last night.”

“Portal?” Ted asks, curious, and right, of course–

“There’s like– gates,” Quentin explains, reaching for the nearest explanation, “like the doors in the Fillory books. And you can cast them, like, as an individual caster, but the amount of calculation that goes into it is enormous and can be dangerous if you’re not really, really, really sure of where you’re going to come out.”

“Like in the middle of a hospital,” Eliot supplies cheerfully, and Quentin buries a smile in the meat of his shoulder. “But there’s some permanent fixed portals that Magicians can use to travel more easily from place to place. Brakebills has a lot of them, all connecting in at the school, because people come to it from everywhere.”

“So you can just go wherever you want, if you have the time to figure it out,” Ted summarizes, shaking his head in– wonder, maybe? “Curly Q, with all that out there, what the hell are you doing here?”

Quentin’s stomach drops, the smile sliding off his face. _Seeing you_ , he thinks, heart in his throat, _while I can_. “The portals aren’t going anywhere,” he says, quiet, clutching at Eliot’s hand.

“Buddy, neither are you, right now,” Ted shakes his head, looking up into the night sky. “You should do something fun this summer, not just– kick around here, helping me sort through the attic.”

“I–” Quentin swallows, looking up helplessly at Eliot, who’s watching him. Quiet, sympathetic, affectionate. _I’d keep you all summer if I could_ , he’d said, a month ago, but he’s also been more than understanding, about what Quentin’s been doing and why. He smiles a little, nudging his head back down towards Quentin, so his nose brushes Quentin’s hair, and it’s– enough. God. “Dad, I want to be here.”

There’s a long, awkward silence, where Quentin can’t help but feel resentful, a little, because– god, if his dad didn’t even _want_ him here, then what the fuck was he doing. But Ted’s just as... stubborn, probably, as he is. 

It’s Eliot who breaks the silence, after a handful of minutes, sliding his hand out of Quentin’s to wrap around his shoulders. “Bambi and I were talking about taking you to London for your birthday,” he’s saying, in his warm, deep, gentle voice. “Or after it, the beginning of next month, maybe. We’ve got a Portal already built at Brakebills, so it could just be a couple days. It’d be easy, if you want.”

He says it so gently, like it’s not– compromise, but also something Quentin would really, really like. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, thumb brushing against Quentin’s shoulder. “She’s got a bunch of nerd shit she wants to show you, I guess, since I’m too boring and sophisticated–”

Quentin snorts a little, and even Ted’s smiling, when Quentin looks over at him. “I want you to have some fun,” Ted says, sincerely, “Plus, it sounds like you’d be able to get back quick, if you needed to.”

“Three hours, tops,” Eliot agrees, laughter in his voice. “I can tell you from personal experience.”

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Quentin sighs, leaning into Eliot’s side, because if he’s going to force the issue then he’s going to damn well get cuddled for it. “I _guess_ I’ll go to London and like. Have fun or whatever. After my birthday.”

“Good,” Eliot and Ted say, in unison, and Quentin gets the distinct impression he’s being laughed at. He doesn’t really get to do much about it, though, before the fireworks start, bright pops of color shooting up over the treeline. 

It continues to be aggressively not weird, to sit here in the lull of the evening, quiet broken only by the pops and cracks of the fireworks, curled into the side of Eliot’s body. It’s easier than it’s ever been before, to let himself relax into it, to let himself actually just– _be_. With his dad, and with Eliot, the three of them just existing together, here, in this moment. To feel seen, and known, and cared for, on all sides, in a way he doesn’t think he ever has, ever, in his whole life.

“Thanks for coming,” he breathes, soft, under his breath, just to Eliot, cupping the inside of his knee and squeezing. 

Eliot just kisses his hair, but– that speaks volumes, really, doesn’t it?

___

It's restlessness that leads them to the club in Chicago. It's Eliot, unsettled, unable to relax into the easy rhythm of endless days. He can't even distract himself with Margo, not really, when she’s up to her elbows in books and spell diagrams, sharp pointed reminders that he should probably be working on shit too, the summer’s half gone. He even _tries_ , that's how bored he is, a solid hour spent with his head in a book on telekinesis and a steadily building headache. 

It makes him snappy, irritable, and he retreats before too long, into the quiet darkness of the Cottage, where he doesn't have to _read_ anything, feeling stupid because this is hard, it's always been hard, this very simple thing that both his favorite people love. 

So when Margo swans back into the Cottage that night with a wiggle and a swirl and giggle of, "We should go out tonight," he jumps at the chance. 

"But of course, Bambi,” Eliot agrees, easy, sweeping her into a gracious spin in the middle of the living room “What are you thinking? Broadway? Swing dancing? Bank robbery?" 

"I was thinking about clubbing in Chicago," she shoots back, and he blinks at her, spinning to a stop. _What the fuck?_

"Why on earth would we go to Chicago for that?" 

"Maybe I want to get my clit licked by a Midwestern girl," Margo cooes back, wiggling her shoulders a little. He smiles, disbelieving, but slaps her ass playfully anyway.

"Literally nothing in the Midwest is better than New York," he informs her, but he's already pulling away, ready to find something to wear, and it’s more of a token argument to begin with. Anything, he's game for literally anything that's not sitting in the library. "I'm sure that includes cunnilingus."

Margo wrinkles her nose at him. “‘Cunnilingus?’ Who the fuck are you? You're spending too much time with Q.”

Irritation flashes, fire-hot, in his chest. _It's been a week and a half,_ thinks the whiny little starving monster in his chest, which is– not the point. The point is that Quentin’s a dork, and Margo’s allowed to make fun of him for it, and neither of them are quite used to how protective Eliot is of him. Not yet. Not when _Eliot_ thinks Q’s a dork to himself at least twice a day. There's a hint of regret on her face the minute the words leave her mouth, anyway, so. He bites it back. Breathes out. ' _I like Q for you'_ she'd said, then helped him pack all his shit so he could abandon her in Spain. They’re working on it.

"No one in Chicago is a better rug muncher than anyone in New York. Better?" he shoots back, bounding up the stairs towards the bedrooms. _Outfit planning_ is required. "Also, Q would have better luck getting 'eat you out' past his blush filter than 'cunnilingus,' just for the record."

"Well, you'd know," Margo says with a shrug, following his lead up the stairs. "Point is, I've been working hard, and you’re restless, we should do something different. Let's go to Chicago, light a different part of the world on fire tonight.”

And honestly, that sounds kind of perfect, an excellent way to burn off the energy buzzing under his skin. 

He finds himself, hours later, in a sweaty mass of writhing bodies, dancing, glowing, _sparkling_ in the night. The heavy beat bounces in his chest as he holds Margo’s little frame against his front, feeling her move with him. They draw in a collection of partners, girls who look at Margo with heavy intent, boys who hold her between them but reach for Eliot, people of any gender who seem happy to be caught in the middle of them. It’s electric, and that buzzing energy sparks under his skin as Margo reaches back, her arms up over her head to loop around his neck, trusting him to hold her as she grinds with the pretty black girl who’s holding her hips.

They get pulled apart in the crowd, eventually, and rather than chase after her, Eliot lets himself be swept towards the bar. It’s busy for a weeknight, but there’s still enough energy that it takes him a couple moments to flag down a bartender and order a simple vodka soda, easy and efficient. Waiting, he fights the urge to fish out his phone, check his texts. There’ll be nothing. He didn’t tell Q that they were leaving the wards tonight, there’s no reason Quentin would even think to text him. But the itchy feeling of it settles on him, waiting for his drink, now that he doesn’t have Margo to distract him. He can feel eyes on him as he turns away from the bar, drink in hand, and finds himself greeted by a boy with two slim silver rings through one nostril.

He’s lovely, and Eliot lets himself get swept away again, but it’s hard, all of a sudden, to get lost in the music in the same way. The body moving against him feels too tall, too built, no brush of long hair against his neck and chest. When the beat changes, Eliot smiles at the boy and moves away, spinning out into the crowd, trying to reclaim that feeling of excited belonging but it’s– it’s slipping, it’s slipping out of his fingers, like he can see it go as he dances with a bear in leather pants, butch girl with very green hair, a bald black man who’s somehow even taller than him.

Drink done, he sets it down on a table near the side of the dance floor, debating heading back to the bar when an arm catches him around his waist, tugging him back onto the dance floor.

“You looked lonely,” calls a handsome boy with tan skin and dark hair, arms settle around Eliot's waist. And, oh, _oh_ that's what this feeling is, he's _lonely–_ “Maybe I can help with that.”

And he’s– he’s just the right height, is the thing, for Eliot to fall into it, to get lost in the dance. If he keeps his eyes– up, out, at the crowd, not at the man working against him then it’s almost– it’s almost kind of right. 

“You’re so handsome _._ Bet you taste so good,” the boy murmurs, pushing up onto his toes to get his mouth up at Eliot’s ear, hand drifting down Eliot’s chest, and– Eliot's stomach twists, pulling away so they're not so close that he can feel every inch of the other boy's body against his. 

“I’m sorry,” Eliot says, except he doesn’t feel sorry, he feels– _guilty_ , and tired, and lonely, which is fucking _bullshit._ He’s Eliot Waugh, he’s supposed to feel _alive_ in a crowd. Nothing about the person he’s built himself to be should feel _lonely_ in a room full of people.

Except–

Except, except, except– he hadn’t felt guilty, until this lovely boy and his lovely dark hair and his lovely dark eyes had named the feeling and slid his hands down towards Eliot’s belly. Being one of the crowd felt– invigorating, when Margo was still in sight. When it didn't _mean anything_. This kind of attention just felt– wrong. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, stepping back, and the boy follows him, not– pushy, but– interested. “I have a boyfriend.”

“I don’t care if you don’t,” the boy offers, stepping back up into Eliot’s space. “He can’t know what he has, if he’s letting you out alone.”

_He does, he just– trusts me_. Eliot takes a deep breath, and catches the boy’s hands, folding them gently and pushing them back towards his chest, away from Eliot’s body. “I care,” he says simply, because, well. He does, doesn’t he?

Escaping out into the night for a cigarette seems like the only solid option at that point, with the ‘ _okay, whatever, man_ ’ following him. Eliot can feel his own heartbeat in his ears, a rushing thump that feels like the music’s crawled inside his bones. There’s a collection of smokers on the edge of the sidewalk, clearly having been scooted away far enough from the bouncer and the line into the club that the smoke won’t carry too badly. He joins them, fishing his cigarette case out of the inner pocket of his vest. 

He flips it open thoughtlessly, then gets– stuck, staring down into it. Four of his own preferred brand sit, tucked into against the hinge, but there’s two others. Quentin’s shitty menthols, because he never upgraded his smoking habits from _high school_ , because Quentin only smokes socially and when he’s stressed and not much the rest of the time. Eliot had gotten tired of Quentin’s faces, every time he bummed a cigarette and then had to deal with it actually _tasting like a cigarette_ , so he’d started– just two of the little menthols, near the clasp of the case.

He pulls one of those out, instead of his own, and doesn’t think about it. 

It would be easy, right? Portal back to Brakebills, then through to New York, and then a late night train through the bridge and tunnel divide, and then an Uber- barely two hours to be kissing the taste of shitty menthols off Quentin lips. Right? Easy. 

That jittery energy sparkles under his skin, kinetic, electric. The gnawing restlessness of the day coming to a head, Eliot feels like he might vibrate out of his skin, right here on this sidewalk. Probably the nicotine isn't helping things, but– He suddenly can't face going back into the club, finding some other short solid guy to grind on, watching Margo spin her way glittering through the crowd, sweeping up nameless girls into her arms and leaving them stunned. It feels _wrong_ to feel off-base like this, he's Eliot _fucking_ Waugh, he doesn't get _lonely_. 

Except.

Maybe he's always been lonely, a little, and only recognizes it now that he knows something else.

He could steal Margo away, maybe, swing back into the club and claim his girl. She'd probably even let him, for a while, move in the circle of his arms and smile up at him with her big doe-eyes and it'd feel perfect, it'd feel _right_ , in the way Margo always feels right. The very squishy core of him knows her, accepts her, rolls over for her claws. She'd let him dance with her in the crowd for a while, but then she'd wander away again, because she's here to get laid, and honestly she deserves it. She deserves everything she wants, always, forever, even if it's not– maybe– really in line with what Eliot wants anymore.

He inhales the last of the cigarette, eyes feeling hot in a way that's got nothing to do with the smoke, and then flicks the butt away. Pulls out his phone to text, before he can talk himself out of it:

**(To Cutie Q) 11:04pm** Hey, baby, still awake? Hope not, but let me know if you are.

The little reply bubbles pop up immediately, a series of fast, short responses that means Quentin's probably been dicking around on his phone anyway.

**(From Cutie Q) 11:05pm __**_bold of you to assume i ever sleep_

**(From Cutie Q) 11:05pm __**_no, i'm awake. yelling at people on reddit instead of sleeping._

**(From Cutie Q) 11:05pm __**_don't judge me. they're wrong._

Eliot's heart does something– really complicated, and painful, physically so, leaving him rubbing at his sternum absently as he stares down at the phone. God, this _dork_ , he's so– _ridiculous_ , really, truly ridiculous. Eliot wants to curl up in his armpit. 

Which is like– a deeply weird sentiment, probably. He shakes himself a little, blinking up at the street. Right. Okay. Going to Montclair right now would be stupid and impulsive, but there's no point torturing himself in the club when it's just reminding him of everything he can't have. He'd stay for Margo, he'd have _fun_ with Margo, but she's otherwise occupied, and– god, there's literally no point staying here having an existential crisis. 

**(To Cutie Q) 11:08pm** Think you'll still be awake in 20 minutes? I'm heading back inside the wards, then we could Skype? If you're still up.

Then he flicks back to the message screen and opens Margo's thread. 

**(To Bambi Dearest) 11:09 pm** I'm going back home. If you need to be removed from a tasteful windy city apartment by a jealous lover, please email me rather than texting, I'm gonna go hang out in the tech shack. 

**(To Bambi Dearest) 11:09pm** Yes I'm going to call Q, yes I'm mocking myself enough for both of us.

Mind made up, he swings back into the club to retrieve his jacket from the coat check. He can just see Margo's head in the crowd, dancing with a busty blonde with an undercut, hands on hips and intent. Good. The phone buzzes in his hands as he sets off walking, brisk clip in the direction of the Brakebills portal.

**(From Cutie Q) 11:12pm __**_yeah, absolutely, call me whenever. <33_

Dumb little less than three and all. God. Eliot's stomach squirms. 

Margo's response comes in right before he steps through the portal back to campus.

**(From Bambi Dearest) 11:32pm __**_Don't mock yourself into a bad mood, Sugar Tits. I will have enough orgasms for the both of us_

The tech shack is as dingy as it ever is, uncomfortable chairs and hanging CDs, prismatic crystals catching the lights and bouncing rainbows around the place. Eliot has never, in his whole time at Brakebills, spent as much time in it as he has this summer. But the computer whirls to life, and Quentin picks up the call on the second ring.

"Hey you," he greets, a little smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. _God–_ Eliot could fucking cry. The dimensions of the video match a phone, so clearly Quentin's just– holding his phone curled up against–

"Are you in the guest room?" Eliot asks, because he _recognizes_ those pillows, and they're not the ones from Quentin's tiny twin bed. 

"Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly going to try to have a conversation quiet enough so I wouldn't wake Dad up," Quentin says with a shrug. "So I came downstairs."

"Oh," he says, dumbly, because– because he can't stop thinking, suddenly, about sleeping with Quentin in the curve of his body in that bed, the creaking of the house, it's particular sounds. Trash pick-up had come through on Tuesday, the week Eliot spent there, waking them both up. They'd curled up under the covers nose to nose, talking quietly until late morning, a secret little bubble of sanctuary all theirs. Eliot _misses it_. "Um– how is he? Ted."

Quentin shrugs a little, visibly. "The blood pressure thing seems to have leveled out, so that's good. I dunno. He doesn't really tell me how he's doing." His mouth twists in an unhappy frown, and Eliot wants to kiss it off his lips. Just hold the back of his head and scratch his scalp and kiss him so softly that he _melts–_ "You said you were going back in the wards. Did you guys go into New York tonight?"

"Nah, Chicago," Eliot sighs, shaking his head. "Change of pace. Margo wanted to get laid so we went to a club. I’m pretty sure I just turned down a blowjob.”

“Oh,” Quentin says, voice– squeaky, through the connection. “Well, um– thank you?”

“I didn’t want it,” Eliot sighs, and then, because, well– “I mean, I would very much like to get my dick sucked, but. I want it to be you doing it.”

“Baby, you say the sweetest things,” Quentin chirps, but he sounds amused. Fuck, he's just. So constantly willing to put up with Eliot's shit, so endlessly and surprisingly compassionate about it, what a mess Eliot is.

“It’s new for me,” Eliot sighs, thinking about all the boyfriends of other people he's slept with in his life. Random nameless club boy had been right, Eliot usually _didn't_ care. “This– only wanting to put my dick in one person.”

“Is it?” Quentin’s is response quiet, knowing, fucking, _he knows me too well_. “Because it seems like that’s what you wanted with Mike, too. I think you’ve secretly always wanted that. I think you, Eliot Waugh, are a serial monogamist.”

Eliot– swallows, feeling– caught out, somehow. His heart clenches, spasming painfully, the echo of another time, another– fucking _version_ of Eliot, before he learned that being away from his father wasn’t _enough_ , that the world would never, ever be kind of boys who wanted with open hearts. _If I wanted this much work,_ Alexi in undergrad had said, _I would fuck girls_. “Yeah, that’s me,” Eliot laughs, hollow, and swallows. Swallows. “So I had this– In undergrad I had this boyfriend. My _first_ boyfriend.” He says the word lightly, like that can couch the– the fucking _importance_ of it, to that 20 year old kid who was still fucking– trying on personalities like outfits, to find the bits that fit best, that were worth adding to the closet of his life.

Quentin makes a soft, affirmative sound. “What was his name?” he asks, gentle, through the filter of the computer connection. His hair’s hanging across his cheek, and he pushes it back absently, thoughtlessly, phone still balanced on his knee.

“Doesn’t matter,” Eliot answers, on reflex, then makes himself stop. Breathe. Look at Quentin, whose brows are furrowed, but– who isn’t going to push, probably, is he? Sighing, Eliot rubs his temple, and says, “Alexi. His name was Alexi.”

“Sounds like an asshole,” Quentin says, stubborn loyal little thing, and Eliot laughs, against this ache in his chest, a broken bone long since healed that still creaks when it rains.

“It ended badly. To the tune of like– me losing a part in our spring production because he fucked the assistant director and convinced him to cut me loose,” Eliot says, watching, amused, as Quentin’s eyebrows move up to make friends with his hairline. “Theatre programs are just like that, sometimes. Honestly, I probably did worse to boys after me. But after it all ended, I decided that I was just. Done with all that. I didn’t need anyone to be me. _I would be enough_ for me.”

“Objectively, that’s not like– an _unhealthy_ thing to learn, in moderation,” Quentin says, careful, thoughtful, god, everything would– wouldn’t everything feel easier if Eliot could just _hold_ him? But then would he even try to talk about it at all? “Like– you’re self-sufficient. You’re _self-confident_. You protect yourself. I really admire that, about you.”

“There is probably a point,” Eliot whispers, voice hoarse, and god, he hopes Quentin can hear him, because fuck if he’s going to be able to get this out twice, “where the walls you build to protect yourself start blocking out the sun.”

Quentin blinks, lip curling a little, a soft warm parenthesis of a dimple in his cheek. “Poetic,” he says, dryly, and Eliot snorts, feeling like he’s– coming up out of the water, maybe, an ache like air rushing back into his lungs, painful but– alive. Full of life. 

“Yeah, well. I have a degree in Acting. The _drama_ of it all, you know.”

“To extend your very over-arch metaphor,” Quentin says, in that bratty ‘ _I went to an Ivy League, you can’t out-literate me’_ way of his, “I’ve never felt like your walls kept me out. It’s always seemed like– you’re selective about who gets to come into the Secret Garden, and how long they get to stay there, but for like– Me? And Margo? It seems like those walls protect us, too. Like they’re there, but we’re on the inside, and we get to be sheltered by it too. I don’t know, this is your metaphor, I take no responsibility for its merit.”

Eliot snorts, then sighs, dragging his hands down his face. God, he’s tired. All the frenetic, kinetic energy from early has leached out of him. “I loved that movie as a kid.”

Quentin’s face scrunches up. “There was a movie of _The Secret Garden_?”

“Of course there was,” Eliot scroffs, just to watch Quentin’s face. “It had Dame Maggie Smith in it.”

“I’ll show you the book sometime,” Quentin tosses back, familiar, set up for Eliot’s lines:

“Quentin, you know I can’t read.” Q rolls his eyes, pointed, amused, and Eliot just fucking– wants to hug him. A little desperately, he gets out, “I wish there was an established portal to Montclair.”

"Fuck, you and me both," Quentin sighs, and there's a thunk as he drops his head back against the wall. "Do you need me to come out there tomorrow? I probably could."

_Yes,_ says the half-starved monster in his chest. "No," he says out loud, shaking his head. "Maybe like– this weekend? If you're free this weekend, you could come hang out for a bit, but– No, I'm fine, just being dramatic and– I wanted to hear your voice, I guess. Working on that whole 'acknowledging I have needs' thing."

Quentin's mouth curls a little at the corner, soft. Dimpling. "What do you need, sweetheart?"

_Be the kind of man you want to be for him._ Reliable. Honest. Vulnerable. "Will you read to me?"

Quentin's surprised smile blooms over his face, bright, wide, and it sends a cascade of warmth through Eliot's stomach. _Right choice._ "Of course, yeah, _yes_ , El. What do you want me to read?"

"Literally whatever you want, your choice," Eliot says, smiling back because it's impossible not to feel Quentin's joy when he smiles. "Whatever you're reading right now, it doesn't even have to be the start of the book."

"No, that's dumb," Quentin says, hand flapping dismissively, and then the camera spins into motion as Quentin starts to crawl off the bed. "Let me see what I have down here, hang on. Fillory? No, if we're doing that I'm going to have to take like– _time_ , to get it like– _right_ , you know? How about, okay, help me out here, like– science fiction or fantasy, give me that much. Or history, I guess? My dad has some history books–"

"Fantasy," Eliot replies, soft, just because he knows it'll make Quentin smile– _just like that_ –rather than any real personal preference. 

Which is how Eliot ends up listening to about an hour of _Wizard of Earthsea_ , tucked awkwardly in the uncomfortable chair in the tech shack. Quentin's voice is warm, expressive, waves of tone rising and falling. He probably doesn't even realize he's changing the cadence of his speech for the different characters, living in the rhythm of the book. Emotions move across his face, open, visible, and Eliot could just– he could do this forever. He could probably honestly do this forever.

But by the time it's 1am, Quentin's eyes are starting to droop, and Eliot's losing the thread of the story, swept up in the texture and sound of his voice. "We should go to bed," Eliot sighs, once Quentin announces the end of a chapter.

"Maybe," Q sighs in response, head dropping down onto the pillows. "Are you going to be able to sleep?"

"Well, I'll have a better shot at it in my room then if I stay in this hut," he points out, dryly, and Quentin snorts. "I'll see you this weekend?"

"Can't wait," Quentin agrees, and blows a kiss at the camera, like the fucking dork he is.

Eliot's laying in bed, sleep eluding him, a couple of hours later when the door to his room creaks open. He can see Margo in the dark, still in her dress from the club, moving quietly in case he's asleep. He waves at her, a little wiggle of his fingers so she'll know he's awake, and moments later she's sliding under the covers, down to her bra and panties, heels and dress abandoned on the floor.

"That's going to wrinkle," he says, absently, into the dark, and Margo snorts.

"Yours is not the first floor this dress has been on, tonight," she says, pleased, snuggling in close. Her calf brushes his foot, silky smooth. "How's Q?"

That weird guilt returns, the feeling like he'd– done something wrong, something _not himself_ by leaving early tonight. "He's fine. We talked for a while. I think he's coming to visit this weekend."

Margo's quiet, for a moment, then she says, simply: "You miss him."

Eliot turns towards her in the dark. She still smells like– the nightclub, and some incense which must be from the girl’s apartment. It doesn’t really mask the smell of spilled beer and stale cigarettes. Thin fucking veneer over all the _ugliness_ –

“Dumb, right?”

“I–” Margo hesitates, which is not like Margo, really. “Can we be real for a second, Eliot? Like actually be honest with each other?”

There's a sharp sting of pain at the back of his throat, and he thinks _‘honestly? Rather not.’_ A year ago he would have said it. A year ago– “Yeah, I. Can probably handle that.”

“I think you’re allowed to miss him. I think it’s good that you miss him,” Margo says, her small hand pressing against the center of Eliot's chest, resting between his pecs over the slow sore beat of his heart. “I’d miss you so much I’d probably actually blow something up, if I had to give you up for three months. And that’s kind of all I have, as far as a frame of reference goes, but. I’d miss you.”

“I’d miss you too, Bambi,” Eliot promises, cupping his hand over hers, because god, he’s _afraid_ that she’s going to doubt it, he’s been worried about that since the start of the summer.

But she shakes her head, hair swishing against his sheets. “No, Eliot, listen to me. You told me, in Spain, that you were worried you were going to break us? I think _I_ broke us, a little. I didn’t understand how you felt, when Mike... happened. I– El, I thought you were like me, I really did. I didn’t get that there was something more you needed and I couldn’t see why it fucked you up to lose it. And I broke your trust, and I’m _sorry_ , baby, I really am. Because I feel like we’ve been missing each other ever since. And not because you have Q, you’re allowed to want that. But because somewhere along the way I made you feel like you shouldn’t. Or you couldn’t tell me that you did.”

“It feels selfish,” Eliot admits, and the words stick in his throat, feel hot behind his eyes, “To want both.”

“Why?” Margo says urgently, fingernails digging into the tender skin on his chest. “Eliot, I’m your _family_. People have boyfriends and families, don’t they? _Quentin_ has you, and he has his dad. You spent a fucking week playing happy house-maker with them. If his dad can carve out a space for you that easily, then I sure as fuck can make space for Quentin. It’s not even hard, I actually _like_ him, when he’s not being self-important.”

“It’s not his best look,” Eliot admits, and he’s– laughing, also kind of crying, and gripping her hand. “I– don’t really know how to do that. Have a family.”

“Me either,” she sighs, wriggling close until he can wrap his arms around her, bury his nose in the smell of her hair. “I think as long as we keep making space for each other in our lives, we’ll be okay. It’s not– I get it now. It’s not about you choosing him over me. I get it.”

“Mike was asking me to choose,” Eliot admits, quietly. “He didn’t– it should have been a warning sign. That he didn’t want me as I was. But– Quentin sends you books. He wouldn’t ask me to choose.”

“No,” Margo agrees. “No, he wouldn’t. And only a little bit because he’s scared of me.”

“As he should be,” Eliot answers, rote, but– “I want us to be us, Margo. That’s just– changing. You’re like, giving a fuck about school. I’m deeply invested in another person’s well-being. Everything’s changing.”

“Sure is,” Margo agrees, smacking a kiss to the center of his chest. She’s probably leaving lipstick prints behind. “It’s how you know we’re not dead.”

"Well, when you look at it that way," he sighs, arm tucking in around her. She shows no sign of aiming to leave and he doesn't really want her to, anyway. A feeling approaching peace settles in over them, and he closes his eyes, chasing sleep. 

___

This time it’s Margo who meets him at the train station, not Eliot.

Which– he’s not going to complain about, not really, _certainly_ not out loud. But she grins at him, arms open and he hugs her because– fuck, he’s heard so much of the exploits of Margo over the summer that it doesn’t really register that it’s been a month and a half until she’s right there in front of him, tiny little glamour bomb lighting up Penn Station. 

“I know you were expecting El,” she says, as they make their way out of the station. “But I have some errands to run that I think you’ll enjoy. And besides, he’s been hogging you _all summer_.”

“What errands could you have that I could _possibly_ enjoy?” Quentin asks, just to wind her up, and it works. 

“You should be _thanking me_ for letting you carry my purse,” Margo says, dangerous. But she hooks her arm through his, leading the way. “Trust me, you’re going to like this place.”

The thing is, he would have, of course he _would have_ , followed her around 5th Avenue carrying her bags with only mild complaining. God knows he’s been like– _well trained_ in this area by a whole fucking lifetime of friendship with Julia. Quentin is _familiar_ with the ins-and-outs of what is sometimes expected, when friendship with fashionable, stylish women is on the line. But Margo– no, Margo defies expectations, and of course Margo has Eliot to go clothes shopping with her anyway, a better suited spectator to that endeavor to begin with, so _Margo–_ takes him to a bookshop.

Not just any bookshop.

He can feel the spell that hits them, the moment they step through the doors, the same spell that zings across his skin entering the Brakebills grounds. “Wards?” he asks, excitement picking up in his throat, because _magic bookshop, holy fuck_.

“Mmmhm,” Margo hums, pleased with herself, with him, with this secret _magic bookshop_. “Classically trained Magicians only. You need to either be currently enrolled at an accredited university or have an Alumni key. Keeps the hedges out.”

“That seems unfair,” Quentin starts, and then gets thoroughly distracted as they step into the store. It’s–

He’s seen pictures of The Last Bookstore in Los Angeles, with its sculptural stacks and color-organized bookshelves. This is _so much_ more than that.

Books, _so many books_ , on every single surface, spiralling in columns up to the vaulted ceiling. Books grouped by area of study first, healing texts in English and Latin and Chinese; cases of horomancy books, each one chained to a little clock, monitoring the distortion of time around it; an entire wall of circumstance and theory text, another of tuts and gesture practice, Popper, Livingston, Ali, Westheimer. 

“ _Margo_ ,” he breathes out, fucking _awed_ , and Margo squeezes his bicep. 

“Welcome to the big boy’s club,” she whispers to him, and then she’s tugging him along towards physical magic, past object repair and flight and transmutation, past telekinesis and translocation. He slips out of her grip to stop in front of a couple of books about, _what_ , building _worlds?_ The text is _dense_ , difficult, referencing theorems and concepts he hasn’t even _heard_ of yet, and when he looks at the other, it’s just the same. 

Still, there’s a bit, towards the beginning, that kind of makes sense, is rooted in a similar kind of magic as– of all things, an object repair spell. The idea of _shaping something–_

He doesn’t even realize he’s lost track of Margo until a staff member from the store comes up to ask him if he needs help, a very polite _buy the book if you’re going to read the whole thing_ , _asshole_. “Um, I’m- I’m good-” he stutters, reshelving the incomprehensible book, and doubling back towards object repair, until he finds a book with the title of one of the unfamiliar theorems. Gotta start somewhere, right?

He finds Margo in a corner of the physical magic section dedicated to the elements; pyromancy, cryomancy, hydromancy, terramancy. She’s sitting neatly on a step-stool, legs crossed, foot bouncing in her terrifying strappy heels.

“Margo, this place is _amazing_ , thank you,” he breathes, spinning around in the little alcove. Fuck, you can _feel the heat_ coming off these pyromancy books. Maybe he should get one for Eliot–

“Who else am I going to talk about books with? _Eliot?”_ Margo returns, raising her eyebrow at him when he looks over at her, like she can tell what he was thinking. 

“I mean, he’s good at listening?” Quentin says, shrugging a little. “Probably better than me, honestly.”

“I think he’s better at listening _to you_ , Babycakes,” Margo says dryly, skimming her fingers along the page of the book in her lap. Her fingernails are a red so dark they’re almost black. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Quentin says distractedly, then, because he clearly has no sense of self preservation or how to avoid getting verbally eviscerated, says, “Maybe don’t like, shit on him about it, though? Like– I know he feels like he shouldread more, or he should _want_ to read more, maybe. It just ends up being something he gets down on himself for.”

“I am aware of Eliot’s particular cocktail of fucked up, I’ve been dealing with it longer than you,” Margo snips, and when Quentin frowns she sighs, giving him a nod of acknowledgement, a little hand wave. “I know I probably make it worse. I don’t know how to stop without– cutting off a part of me that I don’t want to have to hide from him.”

“I read to him?” Quentin offers, smiling a little, leaning awkwardly against a shelf. “I think he’d probably like it if you read to him.”

She shoots him a speculative look. “Yeah, alright. I read some of that book you sent with him to Spain aloud, he didn’t seem to hate it. And thanks for that by the way, it was really different from anything I’ve read.”

“When did you figure out the timelines?” he asks, grinning, and Margo laughs.

“About halfway through. Took me longer than it should have, probably.”

“Nah, I got it around there too.” And, well, on the subject of things she couldn’t talk to Eliot about... “How’s your research going? You got a lead in Barcelona, right?” Her pleased, surprised smile makes him feel warm, all the way down to his toes. Maybe someday it would stop feeling so special, getting to be her friend, but it hasn’t yet. He doesn’t really want it to.

It’s almost dinnertime by the time they leave the bookstore, Margo with two cryomancy books, and Quentin with his theorem and a small book on kinetic pyromancy, which is mostly tut demonstrations and circumstantial equations. He’d spent a good chunk of the time Margo was pouring over her books looking for one fairly light on theory– mathematical, practical, physical. 

Chances are the book would end up shuffled in with Quentin’s, anyway, but– even then, it’s not time wasted. It’d been fun.

“We’re bringing home dinner,” Margo informs him, steering him again by the arm towards whatever destination she has in mind. “Eliot’s making drinks.”

It takes _forever_ , collecting bits of food from various delis and markets and boutiques and bodegas, assembling what Quentin’s best guess at is the world’s finickiest picnic. But soon they’re stepping back through the portal, and it’s like Quentin can breathe again, in the familiar atmospheric spells of the Brakebills campus. He finds himself walking quickly, god, he might _run_ to the Cottage, if he wasn’t having to try to keep a polite pace for Margo in her strappy heels and tight skirt. 

It’s only as they draw close that he notices the column of smoke rising from behind the Cottage. Margo notices it at the same time, eyebrows up, but it’s– too small to really be worrying, and definitely _behind_ the Cottage. 

“You left him alone here,” Quentin points out, and Margo laughs.

“Yeah, should have seen this coming,” she agrees, dryly, and tugs him on. 

There is, somehow, a bonfire burning behind the Cottage, heatless, and seeming to be consuming nothing, it sits crackling merrily the fire pit in front of where Eliot is– just lounging on a blanket in the grass, because of course he is. Eliot, fucking– _miles_ of Eliot, in light cotton pants and breezey short sleeved shirt unbuttoned down past his chest, sunglasses on his nose, looking up at them with a cheeky grin.

“The fuck are you burning?” Margo asks, but Quentin pays her no mind, carefully setting his boxes of food down on one of the lawn chairs and pulling off his bag, and peeling off his outer shirt and then–

_Crawling_ up all eighty miles of Eliot’s body to _kiss him_ , god. He smells like fresh air and sunlight and cologne and like wine and fruit and– his _hands_ , god, one hand on the back of Quentin’s neck, the other on his waist as they fucking– sprawl out on the grass, on the blanket, next to the heatless fire.

“Hi,” Eliot croaks, when Quentin finally stops kissing at his mouth, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to fucking _stick his hands down Eliot’s pants_. Fuck– god, it’s like he _forgets_ , somehow, what wanting Eliot all the time feels like.

“Hey,” Quentin returns, and– kisses him, a little, a bit more, until a thump next to them distracts him. 

“Don’t mind me,” Margo purrs, “just tell me where the Sangria is, and then I’ll go back to my dinner and a show.”

Eliot laughs, bright and happy, as Quentin buries his face in Eliot’s neck, embarrassed. God, he’d– but it’s _Margo_. Eliot’s neck, fucking– long, beautiful, sweet-smelling, all soft skin– is distraction enough.

“In the fridge, inside,” Eliot replies, at the same time Quentin murmurs, soft, just for Eliot, “I _missed_ you.”

They make out a little more, comfortable in the squishy grass, until Margo comes back out with a pitcher of Sangria in one hand, and a pipe in the other, three wine glasses floating behind her like baby ducklings. God, magic is fucking amazing. “Ready for some beautiful nothing, Little Q?” She asks, waving the pipe in his face, and below him, Eliot grins. 

Dinner and a pipe and a couple of glasses of summer stone fruit sangria later, Quentin’s sitting comfortably on the blanket with his back against a lawn chair. Margo, shoeless, is curled on her side diagonally across the blanket, facing Eliot, sprawled lazily with his head in Quentin’s lap. It’s–

– _god_.

It is beautiful, all of it, _them_ , the crackling fire and the late evening sunset. Margo and Eliot, talking, easily, letting Quentin just exist in their bubble. Eliot’s skin, when Quentin absentmindedly slides a hand in the open front of his shirt, Eliot’s _skin_ is beautiful, the hair on his chest, the softness of it– he’s _beautiful._

“If you could fuck one historical figure, who would it be?” Margo asks, and Quentin looks over at her, lazy. Stops feeling Eliot up long enough to reach for his glass of wine instead. Sweet, like peaches, he lets one of the chunks of fruit drop into his mouth– burst of freshness, sharp with wine.

“Alexander Hamilton as played by LMM,” Eliot says, immediately, from Quentin’s lap. His sunglasses are off, now, folded up on the chair near Quentin’s bag, and his eyes are sparkling.

“Nuh uh, doesn’t count,” Margo says, shaking her head. “Actual people only.”

“Eh. Whatever, he stillfucks.”

“Jesus,” Margo breathes, rolling her eyes, and taking a sip of her own sangria. “What about you, Little Q?”

“I dunno,” Quentin shrugs, thinking– _I can’t have forgotten every single historical figure who ever lived, that’s dumb_. “Mary Shelley?”

“Oh yeah? Kinky. Gonna do it on her mamma’s grave?” Margo cooes, at the same moment Eliot says: “OH, oh! I change my answer! Byron, I pick Byron.”

“Almost a full set,” Quentin mutters, smiling a little as he brushes his fingertips against Eliot’s collarbones, into the fabric of Eliot’s light shirt. Then, looks up at Margo, with her eyes dark from the weed, watching them: “What do you say, Margo, take one for the team to the tune of Percy Shelley?”

“Not fair,” Margo, whines, flopping her arm down and her head down onto it. “Why does Q get the hot goth girl?”

“I mean.... I’ll take Percy. I’d definitely take Percy.”

“So would Lord Byron,” Eliot mutters into his wine glass, and Quentin squints down at him, feeling– _happy_.

“I thought you couldn’t read,” he teases, champagne bubbles under his skin.

“If it’s aesthetic and gay, I will... make an attempt,” Eliot quips back, dryly sarcastic, and Quentin giggles, can’t help himself. God. Eliot’s curls under his fingers feel like silk. 

“El, your turn,” Margo prompts, and right, they’re still playing this game, this– truth or truth, fucking– secrets magic, maybe, _highest governing internal circumstance_ bullshit, except he has no truth inside him right now that he’d be scared to share with them.

“Hmmm. What’s the best non-sexual feeling you know?”

“Hedonist,” Quentin acuses, scratching his fingers gently through Eliot’s hair, light against his scalp and thinking _this, this, this_. 

“Taking my high heels and a bra off at the end of the day,” Margo says, immediately, wiggling her painted toes at them. They’re silver, bright and shiny like metal, and Quentin reaches out to catch her ankle, just hold on. She lets him, which feels like an honor, really.

“I don’t think I could do that shit if I was a girl,” Quentin says, absently, tracing his thumb over the arch of her foot.

“Eliot puts as much effort in as I do, Little Q,” Margo says, amused. “Or haven’t you caught him plucking his eyebrows yet?” They’re both kind enough not to mention how hard it is for Quentin _shower_ , some days, much less– anything more.

“Allow me to retain some of my mystique a little while longer, please, Bambi,” Eliot complains, wiggling a little in Quentin’s lap, which is _distracting–_ “What about you, Q?”

_This, this, this_. “Being in the middle of a book and having time to read and somewhere comfortable to do it,” he says instead, thinking of– winter breaks in college, curling up in Julia’s bed, Alice’s, Eliot’s– “being with people who just– let you do that.”

“You’re so easy to please,” Margo sighs, happy, like Quentin’s not the single most high maintenance person she knows. Then to Eliot, “What about you, baby?”

“Fresh sheets still warm from the dryer,” Eliot sighs, reaching for his wine glass. “Extra points if you get to be naked in them.”

“That is a good feeling,” Quentin agrees, thinking– _double extra points if I get_ you _naked in them_. But maybe Eliot can tell, or maybe he’s just thinking it too, the way he smiles up at Quentin, bright, lazy. 

“You’re up, Little Q,” Margo prompts, swirling her wine under her nose. She’s smiling, nothing like her normal predatory smile, and it makes Quentin feel bold.

“How’d you lose your virginity?”

Margo rolls her eyes and says “Virginity is a social construct,” at the same time Eliot laughs and says, “You realize you’re going to have to answer too, right?”

Quentin waves it away, making a face down at Eliot. “My story’s boring. Friend of Julia’s at a party sophomore year of college, I came too fast and she put up with me pawing at her long enough to fake it, probably.”

Margo shakes her head, and Quentin braces for judgement, but what she says instead is, “Literally never understood that. If a guy cares enough to try to get you off, fucking help him do it, right, how is that harder than _pretending_?”

“Right? Thank you!” Quentin squeaks, a little embarrassed, and in his lap, Eliot laughs, rubbing his cheek on Quentin’s thigh. 

“You just like being told what to do,” he murmurs, the low rumble of his voice vibrating under Quentin’s hand and well. Well, he’s not _wrong_. “So, what counts in this question, guys or girls or just _very_ first?”

“Was your first time with a girl?” Quentin asks, somehow– surprised by that, eyes darting over to Margo, who’s just watching Eliot curiously. 

“Hope you’re not operating under the assumption that I’m a goldstar gay,” Eliot says lightly, but there’s a hardness to it that makes Quentin think he’s maybe– had this used against him before. “Sometimes you’re trying to convince yourself something works when it doesn’t, and Mallory from Youth Group finds your brother’s condoms and you just go with it.”

“How old were you?” Margo asks, soft, a little note of worry in her voice, and it’s only then that Quentin realized this might not be something she knows about Eliot. That for all their secrets, there’s maybe something they don’t share, or haven’t yet. That glow, of getting to be a _part_ of it, of them, settles warmly under Quentin’s skin.

From his lap, Eliot’s sighing. “14, almost 15. Like seven months later the quarterback who’d just graduated and was heading to fucking– University of Michigan to play football let me blow him in his truck. He didn’t tell anyone, though, and brought me home after so– I thought that was nice.”

“Jesus, Eliot,” Margo whispers, while Quentin just– settles his hand, sad, under the curve of Eliot’s ribs. He feels bad for asking the question, until Eliot looks up at him and smiles, an actual smile, nothing brittle or broken in it at all.

“I was actually really fucking happy about it, and he was kind enough. It felt right. It felt like I actually _met_ myself, that night. Like I knew, for the first time, who I was going to be.”

“You’re pretty great,” Quentin returns, helpless, and can’t– has to lean down and kiss him, soft. Eliot’s mouth tastes like wine and smoke and he pushes up a little into Quentin’s mouth. 

Margo’s watching them, when they break apart, rolling her eyes theatrically and miming gagging but– it wholly feels like a performance, really, doesn’t it? “Well, _my_ first boy story is unexciting. It was junior prom, he was really hot, I fucked him,” she shrugs, and Eliot laughs, bright, reaching for her. Their hands meet, lovely, dark skin and light, small and large, Quentin could live in the contrast of them, in the spaces between them. Or maybe that’s just the weed. “First girl was _much_ more fun. Lifeguard when I was at UCLA, she used to sneak me under the pier and she’d eat me out for _hours_.”

“As you deserve,” Eliot says, fond, and Quentin’s– really doing the best he can not to think about it too much, picture it or– because Margo’s his _friend_ but probably the only thing that could keep her from ripping his balls off is their direct connection to Eliot’s happiness.

“Damn straight,” she agrees, smiling, all teeth. Then, “What about you, Q, who’s your first guy?”

Quentin looks down to find Eliot looking up, twinkle in his warm hazel eyes. “Oh, you know,” Quentin sighs, fingers sliding into Eliot’s hair. “My best friend danced with me at a club and let me kiss him in the street, and I thought, ‘ _Oh, this changes everything_.’”

“Ugh,” Margo says, and then she’s pulling away, tossing back the rest of her glass of sangria. “You killed the mood, Coldwater.”

“Hashtag disagree,” Eliot whispers, from his lap, and Quentin snorts, fingers against Eliot’s scalp.

But Margo’s standing up, wiggling her skirt down and smoothing it down in the front, before she steps over to them. “I’m outie, boys. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she chirps, bending down to kiss Eliot full on the mouth, and then actually pauses long enough to brush her lips, waxy, against Quentin’s temple. The smell of her, floral and chemical and bold, lingers even as she pulls away, scooping her heels up off the blanket and wiggling her fingers in a little goodbye as she heads into the Cottage. 

“Hey,” Eliot says, soft, from Quentin’s lap, calling his attention back, and Quentin looks back down at him.

“Hey, you,” he returns, and Eliot smiles. God his smile is so fucking nice. Quentin _missed_ him. It’s like all the saturation in the world turns back on, here. Where Quentin’s been living in greyness, suddenly everything is full color again. “My dad says hi,” Quentin murmurs down to Eliot, sifting his fingers gently, so gently through Eliot’s curls. God, beautiful curls, especially like this, wild in the humidity of the night, a secret just for Quentin and Margo, like her without her makeup, Quentin without his long sleeves. 

“Mmm, hi Ted,” Eliot hums, eyes– black, god, beautiful, he’s so– Quentin just wants to touch all of his skin, but that _is_ just the weed. Except, no, he always wants that. “How is he?”

“Okay? He wants you to come down for my birthday,” Quentin remembers, he was supposed to ask, which– that had made his stomach wriggle, a little, at the suggestion, at how– god, of course he wanted Eliot there but it kept surprising him how much his dad seemed to, too. “I don’t know. He’s– slipping, a little. Getting confused about what’s going on sometimes. It’s– never really going to get better, is the thing. It’s a downward slope from here.”

Eliot’s hair under his fingers feels so nice, if Quentin concentrates on that, then he might not have to think about what he’s actually saying. His other hand, laying loose on Eliot’s chest, is free for Eliot to take, and he does. “Q, I’m sorry.”

“I just–” he shrugs, a little helpless. The absolute cavernous ache usually associated with even fucking thinking about this is dulled a little, thanks to the weed, and he thinks he can maybe actually get it out, now. Here, just. Just to Eliot. “There’s so many things I should– things that I _want_ to talk to him about or– ask him about, but I don’t. I don’t know how to talk to him, Eliot, I don’t know how. I feel like we speak completely different languages, and I don’t want to miss the chance but I don’t know what the common ground is.”

Eliot blinks up at him, thoughtfulness written all over his brow. Reaching up, he tucks a strand of loose hair behind Quentin’s ear, because he’s never going to give up on that battle, is he? Quentin turns to kiss his wrist and Eliot smiles. “You have a common language, darling,” Eliot says gently. “You get that the planes are his Fillory, right?”

Quentin blinks down at him, because for a second the words don’t actually compute. “... what?”

“They’re _his_ fantastical escape from reality,” Eliot’s voice is gentle, patient, like he’s not just. Cracking open Quentin’s understanding of the world. “He’s never going to be able to fly, but that doesn’t mean he can’t imagine it. Or that– learning all those things, all the technical elements of those planes and how they work and the people who flew them aren’t a way to escape from reality for him. You might not understand his heroes, baby, and he might not get yours... but you both understand that sometimes you just want to be someone else.”

“That’s not–” the instinct is to argue, because if that’s. If that’s true then how have they just been talking past each other for– Quentin’s entire _life_. He blinks, and blinks, and blinks, eyes wet, and Eliot’s–

Sitting up, on the blanket on the grass, tall and solid and smelling like– peaches and plums and weed and wine when he touches Quentin’s face, cups it, helps him look up. “How are you doing, Q? I ask about your dad a lot, but I don’t– I hope you know I’m asking about you, too.”

Quentin shrugs, helpless. He wants to curl up, wrap his arms around his knees, but he can’t do that without pulling away from Eliot, and he doesn’t want to do that, either, not really. “I– I dunno. Being there is hard. I’m– just like. Sad, a lot, I guess. But like– I’m me, so.”

Eliot frowns, then– drops his forehead down, to rest against Quentin’s, nose to nose. “I wish I could help.”

“You do,” Quentin promises, aching, because– god, he can’t _imagine_ trying to do this without Eliot. Any of it, it all seems insurmountable, but at least he’s got Eliot backing him up, shoring him up, solid chest to lean back against, arms around him, _a safe place to hide_. “God, I– I literally don’t know if I could do this without you.”

“You could,” Eliot says, sure. “You’re the bravest person I know, Q.”

Quentin sighs, tipping over until his head’s resting on Eliot’s chest, lying diagonally across his body. Stars are just starting to twinkle above them, and Quentin looks up, tracking the familiar lines of constellations.

“You know, when I was a kid, my dad would take me out away from the suburbs, to get away from the light pollution and look at the stars,” he says, as Eliot’s arms wrap around him, pulling him down, so they both can look up. “He’d tell me stories about the constellations.”

“I used to do that with my mom,” Eliot admits, quietly, “When I was very little. She didn’t know any of the constellations, though, so we used to make them up. There were a _lot_ of cows in the sky in Indiana.”

“Is she still alive? You don’t talk about her much,” Quentin asks, hesitantly, looking up at him. Eliot didn’t talk about _any_ of his family much. The association with his father and brothers, all of that was pretty obviously bad. But there are mentions, moments, when it seemed like, maybe, there were good memories there, where his mother was concerned. Eliot looks reflective, but doesn’t turn away from the question, eyes still dark, skin golden in the firelight. 

“She was, last I heard,” Eliot says, arms tightening a little around Quentin, who just– snuggles in close. “I don’t know, Q. I haven’t talked to any of them since I left. My mom, she– she tried, I think. When I was young. She loved me. But fucking– four sons, and my asshole father, how much _shit_ could she really be asked to take? Was she supposed to lose her church, which was the only thing she had left– _for me_?”

“Yes,” Quentin says, feeling– angry, and sad, and just– clinging, god. Eliot with his bone-deep compassion, even in this. “Yeah, she was, Eliot. That’s what parents are supposed to do. You deserved better.”

Quiet, a long moment of quiet, stretches out between them, until finally, Eliot says, “I know.” Then, curling in, a little, so he can look at Quentin, nose to nose. “Tell me about the constellations?”

Quentin gives him a skeptical look. “You took Astronomy and Circumstance before I did.”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “Yes, and I know how to figure which stars are going to try to bone me into blowing myself up at any given point, thank you. That’s not like– _literary_ –”

“Oh, well, if you want _literary_ ,” Quentin says, laughing, nuzzling, god– he fucking _loves_ how Eliot is like this, affectionate, cuddly, _close_. “So Ursa Minor is easy to find, look, there.”

“Little dipper,” Eliot fills in, and Quentin nods, pointing up, and trailing his finger through the sky.

“And just over it is Draco, the dragon, which is actually kind of more like a fucking snake, if we’re being honest, but that’s not _literary_ –”

“Brat!” Eliot accuses, giggling, and Quentin grins, ignoring him.

“And you can follow Draco down to Ursa Major, the Great Bear. In Roman mythology, Ursa Major is a woman who Jupitar wanted to, well, like– basically he wanted to fuck her, except Juno thinks he already has because she has a son? So Juno turns Callisto– that’s the girl– she turns Callisto into a bear, and then she’s almost killed by her own son, so Jupiter turns him into a bear and puts them both in the sky.”

“Because that’s definitely easier than turning them back from bears,” Eliot agrees, watching Quentin, wide-eyed, and Quentin smiles, helpless.

“Yeah, because _logic_ is definitely in application here,” he snarks back, then points across the sky, “There, on the other side, that’s Cepheus. He’s an ancient king, though the constellation kind of looks like a tent–”

They stay outside for a long time, long past when the spell for the fire’s burned out. Barely awake, they stumble together up the two flights of stairs to Eliot’s bedroom, sleepily trading out uses of the bathroom while they strip down. Just barely, they manage to get down to their skin and into the bed before sleep takes them, long-absent in the days apart. 

Quentin wakes up in the middle of the night, half conscious as Eliot shifts against him. He's– God, still half asleep, they both are but it's– just cool silky sheets and _skin_ everywhere, God, so much skin. When he moves even a little he can feel Eliot _everywhere_ , chest to chest and hips together, Eliot's thigh tucked up tight between his legs, oh. He hadn’t– had he been dreaming? Of– just _good_ things, feeling good, god, he feels so good, _Eliot_ feels so good. The solid muscle of his thigh right up between Quentin’s legs, where he’s hard, pleasure blooming, the scrape of Eliot’s chest hair against his, on his nipples, _god–_

Groggy, he nuzzles in, and Eliot makes just– the happiest little sound, mouth warm and wet on Quentin’s when they kiss. "Baby," Eliot murmurs, slurred, and it's all Quentin wants, to wriggle in closer, press the whole of himself wholly against the whole of Eliot. Animal need curls in his stomach, skin hunger driving him, fuck, _his body, my body,_ oh god. Endless unspooling want as Eliot cups his jaw to kiss him for real, slide their mouths together as they start to rock, _hungry–_

Eliot's mouth slips away with a groan, his head rolling back and Quentin, just– Eliot's hand is still on his cheek, touching, holding, thumb on his cheekbone, in against his ear as pleasure grows, _hot bright sweet_ , between his legs. Quentin turns his head, chasing Eliot's hand until he can kiss his palm, rub his nose and mouth against it until Eliot focuses in, eyes wide and mouth open in the darkness as he brushes his fingers against Quentin’s lips and Quentin just– opens for him, tongue out, offering– breathing out through his nose on a whine as Eliot pushes two fingers forward and Quentin just– takes them inside. 

His skin tastes salty, and then not like much at all, as Eliot pets those two fingers gently against Quentin’s tongue and it’s just– those beautiful hands. Hungry, sleepy, _wanting_ , Quentin reaches up to catch Eliot’s wrist, hold his hand, keep it– _close_ , so Quentin can just _suck_. 

“ _Q_ ,” Eliot groans, as Quentin runs his thumb along the veins on the back of Eliot’s hand, the delicate fine bones, soft skin, keeping those clever fingers here– just where he needs them as Eliot’s getting– fuck, getting hard against his stomach. God it’s fucking– _massive_ , he can feel it all the way from his pubic bone to his belly button, god, _how do I ever get that inside me_ and alsothe whinging needing thing in his gut begging, pleading _how come I don’t have it in me right now?_

He’s hard too, isn’t he, hips working, rocking against Eliot’s thigh, and it– fucking feels amazing, god. How had he never _known_ , how had he gone so fucking long without knowing how good sex could feel? Any sex, all of it, even just this: half awake in the middle of the night, sheets tangled around their legs, barely enough coordination between them to do anything but just rub their soft animal parts together, and Eliot’s still just. Just the best fucking thing he’s ever had. 

Kisses– they can’t kiss, with Eliot’s fingers in his mouth like this, but Eliot can still rain kisses down on him, against his cheek, ears, tender soft throat, a particularly sensitive spot under the hinge of his jaw that makes Quentin whine and just _suck_ needily, helplessly, until Eliot’s muscling up and over. Bracing over him, Eliot cups the back of his neck, turning, gently, Quentin’s head to the side so he can slide, gently, his fingers out and adjust the distribution of weight on his arms. And Quentin fucking _whines_ , embarrassing except for how Eliot’s kissing all over his face, murmuring softly, “Sweet boy, it’s okay, I’ll give it back,” and then he’s fitting _three_ fingers back into Quentin’s mouth, right elbow braced against the bed to hold his weight and fingers just tucking– stretching, _opening_ Quentin’s mouth. 

While the other hand slides down between them to curl around Quentin’s cock. 

“So cute,” Eliot murmurs, almost absently, almost to himself, as his left hand cups Quentin’s dick, holds it, and Quentin– fuck, bucks up into his hand, helplessly, sucking– pushing those long clever fingers almost all the way to the back of his throat as he shudders, because– fuck. _Fuck_ , god, say it, please say it, please– 

“Please–” he mumbles, and god, it’s barely a word, because he’s still fucking– holding Eliot’s hand to his mouth, god, the fucking– never-end pit of need inside of him barely satisfied with running his tongue along the seam between the fingers, but– 

“It gets you so hard when I tell you how much I like your sweet little cock, doesn’t it?” Eliot cooes, his voice a soft gentle thing like a caress, and Quentin– trembles. Full body. Nods, helpless, sucking– sucking Eliot’s fingers in his mouth.

Eliot draws in a deep, shuddering breath, tucking his face down against the crook of Quentin’s neck, like it’s too much for _him_ , like it’s something he needs to– hide from. And that’s the only thing in the fucking world, isn’t it, that could make Quentin let go of his fingers, let them fall from his mouth as he reaches up, tender, slides his hands into Eliot’s lovely soft curls, pets down his neck. “ _El_ ,” he gets out, voice rough, petting down across the span of his shoulders, sweat blooming on his skin, turning his face towards Eliot’s face. “Eliot, I like it because you do. You make me feel so... _wanted_ –”

Eliot makes a soft, wounded sound, and then he’s pushing up, kissing– oh, that works, Quentin can suck on his tongue instead, until he’s– moaning, into Quentin’s mouth, still halfheartedly jacking him off but mostly just– rubbing the whole entirety of their bodies together. “I do, I want you,” Eliot pants, when he pulls away, and Quentin can't quite see his face in the dark, but– his eyes look bright. “God, do you even know how– it’s like you were fucking– made for me, god, you’re– I– your sweet little dick, Q, and your pretty hot mouth and your cute little ass, and how you just– fucking _want_ it, all the time, god. You do– you want it, right? You want– it, like–”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Quentin groans, pushing up, god, elbows under him so he can _kiss_ at Eliot’s sweet warm mouth, feel the rabbit-frantic beat of his heart against his own chest. Hands, sliding up Eliot’s neck, thumbs against his jaw, his scratchy sideburns. “Baby, I want you so much, of course I want it. Of course I want it, of course I want _you_ , Eliot, every single day–”

Fucking, _babbling_ , until Eliot shuts him up, thank fucking god, with a hard, hungry, deep kiss. God, and it’s true, isn’t it? He does want it, hot helpless– god, sometimes his body just fucking– forgets how to have a sex drive, doesn’t it? This whole summer, weeks of dullness stretched out between the bright points of light that are _Eliot_ shaped, he’s– the only times he’s even wanted to jerk off, really, are after he fucking– talks to Eliot, remembers– that his body _wants_ things sometimes, because. Well, depression, fucking bitch that it is, steals that away from him, turns it off, turns off the part of his brain that even remembers to want sex, but it _always_ turns back on, as soon as– Eliot kisses him, touches him, holds him smiles at him pushes their noses mouths bodies hearts together, god, _Eliot_. 

“I like–” He starts, because god, he can probably stand the embarrassment of actually saying it, if Eliot needs to hear it. “– that you’re big and I’m–”

“Smaller,” Eliot fills in, kind, gracious, and god, it’s hard– but he _does like it_ , humiliated, _he likes it when it’s Eliot_. “Sweet and cute and _perfect_ , Q, you’re perfect. Perfect little mouthful.”

Sharp, a bolt of arousal, almost painful in how good it is, and Quentin’s hips are bucking up into Eliot’s hand, which tightens reflexively, going back to a more serious attempt at a handjob. Like this isn’t weirdly the most turned on Quentin’s ever felt in his life, skin sliding together, sweaty bodies humping together in the dark. “I like how we’re different, and I like how we’re the same,” Quentin groans, pushing his nose up into Eliot’s nose, breathing hot out across– Eliot’s _breath_. Hands sliding down, Quentin gets his fingers tangled in the hair on Eliot’s chest and tugs, a little. Then, helpless, “Eliot, if you don’t give me something to suck on, I might honestly cry.”

Eliot’s laughing, then, and then– kissing him, which is still, maybe, _better_ , as long as Eliot’s hand is on his neck and _tongue_ inside, then he’s– pulling away to give him– _yes_ – fingers back. Three fingers, god, skin slightly cool and tacky with dried spit except then they’re just warm and solid and deep and Quentin can just let his eyes fall shut and _feel_ –

Feel the fullness of his mouth, Eliot’s fingers petting warm against his tongue, touching, god, _rocking_ a little so he’s fucking Quentin’s mouth open, the hungry drooling space of him. Feels the burning-hot length of Eliot’s cock, rubbing against his hip, and maybe Quentin should be doing more to help with that except– Eliot put him like this, didn’t he, and with his eyes closed all he can do is: feel, Eliot’s strong, sturdy, steady hand working in perfect rhythm down between his legs, tugging, tugging, tugging as pleasure _blooms_ in his hips, Eliot’s mouth against his cheek, breathing out a stream of filth that makes Quentin’s _balls ache_. 

“First time I ever– touched you like this, Q, I thought– you’re such a good little handful, god, this perfect boy who can’t stop touching my cock like it’s something _special_ , and he’s got this perfect little dick that I can just–” Quentin thinks, barely able to breathe, _god,_ he probably would be sobbing, if not for the fingers in his mouth; “–fit it all in my hand,I’m so glad you like it baby, because _I like it_. I really like it.”

Quentin can’t do anything, really besides move his head helplessly on Eliot’s fingers, suck, pull back and push down and suck– god. Eliot’s voice, god, Eliot _talking to him_ , fuck, ever since that first time, when Quentin had been so sure, finally, of what he wanted, even when Eliot looked– like a startled deer, spooked, god, _how did Margo end up being Bambi_ when Eliot had those big fucking scared eyes– when Quentin had finally gotten to touch Eliot’s big, thick cock, looking down to see– all the ways they were different. All the ways they’re the same. 

“Everything about you, Q– you fill up my mouth just right, I love having you in my hand– I just– Q,” Eliot, shaking, isn’t he, his whole body, as he grinds his face against Quentin’s neck. “I’ve never– I’ve never let anyone fuck me, but I think I’d like it, if it’s you.”

Everything kind of falls apart then, Eliot’s– maybe crying, except Quentin can’t tell because he’s coming, and so, _fuck_ , so is Eliot, messy against his hip, and Quentin’s sluggish brain is still trying to process that. But it’s hard to think of much at all, with Eliot’s fingers still– halfway down his throat.

Sweaty, sticky, trembling mess, they just lay there, collapsed, for long enough that Quentin thinks, half-heartedly, about going back to sleep. Then Eliot’s sliding his fingers, gently, out of Quentin’s mouth, and dragging himself up and over and rolling away, until he’s– on his back at Quentin’s side in the dark. Probably fucking– freaking out, isn’t he, and Quentin just can’t leave him alone in that. He just can’t. 

Telekinisis is fucking– impossible for Quentin, really, definitely not his skill and all told it’s easier to sit up and reach for the lamp with his hands, click it on at Eliot’s bedside so it’s warm light fills the room. It’s still just past 4am, apparently, which probably means the sun is going to rise soon, fucking summer, but Eliot’s on his back, head turned away, and.

Objectively, right? Objectively he’s fucking beautiful. Pale skin and dark hair, rosey pink nipples, the sheet caught around his hips like life is a fucking television show and his modesty must be preserved for the sake of the censors. Objectively, he’s heart wrenchingly lovely. Subjectively, he looks–

Still lovely. Terrified, but still lovely. 

Sighing, Quentin rolls over towards him, until he’s laying half on top of Eliot, arm around his chest. There’s a patch of freckles across his shoulders, just along the tops, new since Spain, and Quentin kisses them, kisses the point of bone where Eliot’s clavicle meets his shoulder. “You didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he fills in, soft, against Eliot’s warm skin, rubbing his hand along the span of Eliot’s ribs, up over his chest. 

“I didn’t even mean to think it,” Eliot admits, which is– credit where credit is due, at least that’s honestly. The wall isn’t going back up, even if it means Eliot’s just– here, exposed, without its protection. 

Which just means Quentin’s going to have to do the protecting for him, doesn’t it? 

“Then we’ll pretend you didn’t,” he says, easily, wiggling until he can rest his cheek over the rapid-flutter beat of Eliot’s heart. “You’re scared, yeah?”

“Fuck,” Eliot breathes out, a laugh, almost, and then moves for the first time since he rolled over, rubbing his hand up over his own face. “I don’t know how you manage not to be, every single time.”

Quentin shrugs, because– sex has never felt like that for him, like one particular act demands more vulnerability than the rest of it. Not when the whole thing comes at the price of being known. He’d been ready to let Eliot in the moment they kissed in the alley outside the club, let him in however, in whatever form that took. But there was no way to explain that to Eliot, who’s been– hurt so much more deeply, in so many ways, than Quentin has when it comes to this. 

“I don’t want you to be scared of me,” he says instead, because: “El, I want you to feel safe with me. I genuinely don’t care if I never put my dick anywhere other than your mouth, I _don’t_ , I fucking love oral sex. But I want you to know that I will take every single bit of you that you give me, and keep it safe."

Eliot makes a strangled sound, lost, and Quentin just– turns his face in, kisses him, right there. Right there, through hair and sweat and skin and bone, right over his wildly beating heart. 

“How are you real?” Eliot asks, then– nudging, rolling, until they’re both on their sides again, and Eliot’s cupping his cheek, his neck, holding his skull so they can kiss, while Eliot breathes; “Are you sure I’m not just– wildly hallucinating you, passed out in some seedy club in New York.”

“All of magic, and I’m the thing that makes you question the nature of reality?” Quentin asks, dryly, as Eliot’s nose rubs against his.

“Magic makes sense. Magic hurts. You–” Eliot shakes his head, speechless. 

“I would hope that if you were hallucinating a boyfriend, you’d make someone a little less fucked up,” Quentin mutters, self-conscious, because not like he doesn’t _know himself_ , is it?

“You wildly underestimate how much ‘adorable and in need of assistance’ is exactly my type,” Eliot sighs, and there’s a little bit of the wall again, a little bit of the armor. 

“Wow, we were just– heading there from the start, then, weren’t we? Me late for a test and stuck in a bush, and you on that sign in your David-Bowie-Goblin-King-tight pants...” Eliot snorts, inelegant, then it dissolves into giggles, laughter, bright, _bright_ happiness, smiling when he finally meets Quentin’s eyes. 

“Romance for the ages,” Eliot agrees, half sarcastic, but really– mostly not.

“I’m sorry for waking you up into an existential crisis,” Quentin murmurs, touching his fingers against the point of Eliot’s chin, while Eliot’s hand slides a long loop across his back, shoulder blades to tailbone. “But I’m pretty sure it’s your fault for sticking your leg on my balls.”

Eliot’s smile goes softer, fond, suited to the warm lamp light. He reaches up for Quentin’s hand, the one petting his jaw, and tangles their fingers together, palm to palm. “I’m never exactly gonna complain about getting to be close to you, Q. No regrets,” he promises, then. “Though we should clean up before we fall back to sleep. There will be some regrets if we don’t do that.”

Which, right. Neat, fussy Eliot. God, Quentin just–

“I like you so much,” he mutters, watching that– _hunger_ , starving for affection, that need flitter across Eliot’s face. “Like, so stupid much.”

“Me–” he starts, squeaky, and then stops to clear his throat. “Me too, Baby Q.”

They can kiss a little more before they clean up– that’s fine.

They go into the city with Margo the next day, and have a late brunch out on the town. It feels– ridiculous, somehow, Margo in a tight floral dress and Eliot in a full three-piece suit, they’re the single most glamorous people Quentin’s ever seen in real life. But Eliot keeps his arm around Quentin’s shoulders as they poke around for somewhere brunchable in Brooklyn, like there aren’t hundreds of places, like there isn’t somewhere to eat every other block.

“This is my stomping ground,” Quentin complains, when they refuse to listen to his opinion, and Margo laughs in his face.

“Okay, _Columbia_ ,” Margo shoots back.

“Okay, but I couldn’t exactly afford to live on the Upper West Side, could I?” Quentin grumbles back, as Eliot grins at him. “I couldn’t even have afforded to live in _Brooklyn_ , if Julia’s parents didn’t fucking own the condo we lived in. Besides, Eliot went to SUNY.”

“Yeah, and I _also_ lived in Brooklyn,” Eliot teases, laughing, nose in Quentin’s hair. “And I had like four roommates to do it, because I didn’t have a bestie with a trust fund.”

The place they find to eat is delicious, though, with mimosas by the bottle and fresh bread made in house, creamy eggs and strong coffee. He gets a picture, too, of Eliot– smile big enough to see the little gaps behind his canine teeth, curls wild in the wind with the Manhattan Bridge in the background. 

He looks at it way more than he should, possibly, on the train ride back to Jersey. 

It’s early evening by the time Quentin gets back, Uber ride from the train station starting around the time he gets a text from Margo and Eliot each.

**(From– El) 4:47pm __**_Heading back to campus now. See you for your birthday, baby. Thanks for coming to visit._

**(From– High Queen Margo The Destroyer) 4:48pm** _You left your book in my bag so it’s legally mine now. Sorry, bitch, I don’t make the rules._

He stands on the front porch, looking at their texts, feeling– unbearably tender, achingly lonely. But– _while I still can_.

The TV is on, when Quentin steps in the living room, playing– oh god, some World War Two movie, one of the many in rotation that Quentin can’t stand, but– Ted smiles at him, a little, so he’s awake, at least. That’s good. “Hey, Buddy. How’s Eliot?”

“He’s good,” Quentin says, smiling, can’t– help himself, god, can he, when he thinks about _hours_ of Eliot’s head in his lap, chest under his cheek, the color of his skin in the firelight. “I– he’s going to come down for my birthday. He says hi.”

“Good, that’s good,” Ted nods, turning back to the movie, and that might be it, except–

Well, Eliot– Eliot said there might be some way to bridge the gap, didn’t he? Outsider’s perspective. Deep breath, take the plunge–

“How come you never became a pilot?” Quentin asks, sitting down on the edge of the couch. Ted blinks, a little startled, and Quentin’s stomach drops, _god, please don’t let it be too late_ , _don’t let me have missed my chance–_

“It never seemed practical, I guess,” Ted says with a laugh and a little shake of his head. “I was– you know your grandfather never got to go to college, but I got the scholarship to study engineering and– that just seemed like the better option, somehow.”

“But you love it,” Quentin says, feeling– heartbroken, somehow, thinking about– a life where he knew magic was real, and decided to study finance anyway.

“Not everyone gets to follow their childhood dreams, Curly Q,” Ted says gently, and Quentin hunches in on himself a little, folding deeper into the couch. “Though, if anyone got to have their fantastical ambition to become a wizard come true– I’m glad it was you.”

“Sometimes it seems like now I just have magical problems,” Quentin sighs, thinking about– ‘ _undetermined’_ and ‘ _magic can’t cure cancer_ ,’ about the gaping maw of stress that was Eliot’s mental roadblock about dissertation topics. But– the _feeling_ of casting a spell, of discovering some new wonderful possible thing, the simple fact that magic exists and everything that has come with it: Brakebills, new friends, _Eliot_ – Quentin wouldn’t give it up for anything. “You could have become a pilot after college, though. Why not?”

“Well,” Ted says, smiling a little. “By then, I’d met your mother, and I guess my priorities had shifted.”

“Right.” Because that went _so well_ , in the long run. Quentin shifts uncomfortably, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Did you– um. Did you always want a family?”

“It’s something I always thought I’d have,” Ted muses, tilting his head a little. “I didn’t really know what I was getting into though.”

Quentin’s stomach sinks. “Yeah, I’m sure I was difficult–”

“Buddy, I didn’t know it was possible to love something so much until the first time I looked at you,” Ted says, voice hoarse, sitting forward. “And everything we’ve been through, since then, all of it? I wouldn’t undo it for a second. I don’t know if you’re ever going to want that, but, if you do, someday... if you look at your kid, and think ‘nothing else in the world will ever matter’ then know you’re feeling exactly how I felt.”

Quentin thinks, suddenly, helplessly, of a baby with– dark bouncy curls– and swallows. “I do want that,” he chokes out. “It’s not– it’s not fucking fair that you won’t ever get to see it.”

“It’s not, you’re right. It’s not fucking fair,” Ted agrees, and Quentin laughs, helpless. “I’d have loved to be able to meet your kids, Q.”

God. _God_. Quentin scrubs a hand over his face, over the tears leaking from his eyes. “Any advice? That– um. What should I know?”

“God, you got all night?” Ted asks, joking, and Quentin– 

Swallows. Sits forward a little, legs folding on the couch. “Yeah, actually– I kinda do.”

Hours, _hours_ later, Quentin curls up around his phone, typing out an email to Eliot that he won’t be able to read until the next time he checks it in the tech shack. 

_You were right, I just. I just needed to find a way to start and I don’t think I could have without you, Eliot, I really don’t. We talked about so much, so many things, like, god, he saw The Talking Heads in concert in the 80s, how wild is that? And he remembers when_ Star Trek: The Motion Picture _came out and apparently had a lot of feelings about it at the time. You were right, there is a common language, and I just. I couldn’t see it. I know I just saw you like 12 hours ago but I miss you already so stupid much and I feel like I’ve been crying for 4 of those 12 hours and I just._

_I wish I could hug you. Everything feels better when I can hug you. It’s like your superpower._

_Let’s talk soon. I miss you._

_– Q_


	3. August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the tags added for this chapter, specifically the reference to suicidal ideation.
> 
> It's done! I can't believe it's done. I sat down to write this fic at the end of December and knew immediately that it was going to be an undertaking, but I really had no idea how much I was getting into. I remember saying jokingly that this might be the first 50k fic I've written on my own, and then I just went and WILDLY blew that out of the water. Special, sincere thanks to [propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous), who rolled up her sleeves and beta read a novel for me. Thank you for all the cheerleading and the validation and the hand-holding and the thoughtful suggestions. This fic would not be what it is without you.
> 
> And thank you so much to everyone who's read this fic, shared it, kudos'd it, commented on it. I have not been good at responding to comments, lately, and I do feel bad about that. Please know that I've read all of them, and they mean the world to me. I'm sorry it took so long to get the ending to you guys, but I've so glad to have been able to share this with you, post-finale, even with the world as crazy as it is. Thank you for going along for this ride with me. <3

They leave for London together after his birthday. 

It's not, all told, one of the better birthdays of Quentin's life. He gets to wake up with Eliot, which is nice; he gets a birthday blowjob from behind the safety of some wards and a silencing spell, which is even nicer. But it's kind of downhill from there, with an awkward phone call from his mother which circles into their old familiar fight about Quentin needing to grow up, and nothing at all from Julia, the whole day. The crowning bit of shitty comes at dinner when Ted loses track of how old Quentin’s turning, visibly slipping in his head and obviously upset by it. It's the first time Eliot's been there for one of those, which is– well now at least he knows, so Quentin doesn't have to try to describe it. Quentin tries, he really does, he tries to have a good time for his dad for the rest of the night, _while he can._ But.

It just means burying a bunch of shit that floats to the surface later, insomnia piling into silent tears and leaving him lying wide awake in the guest room, sleepless and staring out the window with wet eyes while Eliot rubs his back. The wide strokes of his palm are comforting as anything can be, but he doesn't say anything. There isn't much to say. At least they get to take the train back into the city together. Midday, and it's nearly empty, and it's so much more fucking bearable to just exist in the world when Quentin can kick off his shoes and twist up onto the seat to wriggle his toes under Eliot's thigh, steal his hand so Quentin can play with his fingers. 

"What's your favorite thing to do in London?" Quentin asks, twirling one of Eliot's rings, chunky silver set with green stones. 

"Mmm, theater probably," Eliot says with a hum, and when Quentin looks up at him, Eliot's watching him, eyes warm. "But I'm an actor, baby, or at least I was gonna be. There's so many museums and historical sites, there's no way we're going to see it all, so we don't have to try. The beauty of the closet portal, we can go back any time."

“Except, you know, classes,” Quentin points out, teasing, and when Eliot kisses him, it feels– _safe_. 

They walk hand in hand back to the Brakebills portal, Quentin’s duffle bag in Eliot’s other hand because he’d insisted, and Quentin couldn’t really find a reason to fight him on it. Margo greets them with a pinch to Quentin’s cheek, a full-tooth grin, and a _happy birthday_ which sounds really quite salacious actually. Then it’s a hectic 45 minutes of Eliot and Margo scrambling to check their bags for this vest or those shoes, which Quentin passes just– laying on his back on Margo’s bed, breathing in the smell of her sheets, hairspray and soap and perfume and a hundred other smells that he couldn’t possible identify, listening to them bustle around him. If he closes his eyes, he can just– disappear, maybe, into the mountain of pillows. It’s a very different smell than Eliot’s bed, but– nice. There’s traces of Eliot here, too, and that feels right. 

The bed dips, shaking a little, and then there’s a warm body sliding up along Quentin’s side. Another, on the other side, smaller. 

“Sleepy baby,” Eliot cooes, softly, on his right, nose brushing against his cheek, and Margo giggles to his left.

“Maybe we should put him down for a little while.”

“I hate you both,” Quentin grumbles, rolling off his back to the side– directly into Eliot’s arms, sure, but don’t tell him that. Face against the crook of Eliot’s neck, he sighs. God, he is tired. Which, honestly, what can be expected after maybe a total of three hours of sleep last night? But Margo’s bed is like Eliot’s, in that ‘way more comfortable than a college dorm bed should be’ way, and Eliot– Eliot’s warm, when Quentin snuggles into him. Warm, and he smells like soap and tobacco and aftershave, and if Quentin wiggles his face in just right he can tuck his nose in against the dip of Eliot’s Adam’s apple and just– not think. About anything.

“Do you want to take a nap?” Eliot asks, gentle, non-judgemental, one arm looping up around Quentin’s shoulders while the other rubs his arm. Which means it must be Margo’s hand in the center of his back, scratching lightly with her long nails. “I know you didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

Neither did Eliot, come to that. But– “No. It’ll just make the jet lag worse, right? We should, like, push through until it’s time to sleep in London.”

They step through the portal in the closet together, and it’s– well, it’s kind of entirely what Quentin’s imagined stepping through a portal in the closet would be like, during his whole life of finding secret doors and running away. Except maybe it doesn’t count as running away, if you’re being brought somewhere, _to something_ , by people who care about you. They step out into a pub, quiet in the middle of the late afternoon lull. The bartender gives them an odd look, which is explained by the door swinging shut behind them, faded letters on black paint reading ‘ _gents’._

Grinning at Quentin over Margo’s head, Eliot presses a kiss to her hair, eyes sparkling. “Welcome to the Ball And Sack, Q. Best pub you’ll ever find.”

“‘Course it is,” Quentin agrees, amused, and Margo grins at him. 

The first day, half-day really, is a blur of just getting oriented. Eliot and Margo both have Oyster Cards, but they still have to get him one. Then he spends the entire time they’re waiting for the train to arrive telling them why they’re called Oyster Cards according to Wikipedia, much to Margo’s annoyance and Eliot’s fond amusement. By the time the train pulls up with a chime of ‘ _Mind The Gap_ ,’ giddy excitement has started to push away the cobwebs in Quentin’s brain. He stands looking at the rail map, and Eliot stands close behind him, one hand on his hip, the other holding a post to steady them. Margo’s sitting close by and it feels–

Like an adventure.

They find their hotel and check in. Quentin somehow expected them to all be sharing a room, used to the traveling he’d done with Julia and James in college, them in a full bed and Quentin squashed on the couch. But no, they have two comfortably spacious rooms across the hall from each other, each with a bed bigger than the full in the guest room at his dad’s house or Eliot’s dorm bed at Brakebills. There’s an en-suite bathroom with a rather intimidating looking shower featuring, like, a truly unnecessary number of shower heads and a wide counter, already littered with Eliot’s various bottles and sprays.

“How are we paying for this?” Quentin asks as he wanders out of the bathroom, because god, he’s such a shit, it hasn’t even occurred to him to ask. Eliot’s suitcase is taking up half the bed, and Margo’s taking up the other half, so he perches on the desk chair, watching as Eliot unfolds and spells his shirts free of wrinkles.

“I still have my Daddy’s credit card,” Margo says, sweet honey in her voice concealing poison. “He pretends that not checking to see what I do with it is a substitute for fatherhood.”

“So don’t worry about it, basically,” Eliot says, eyes twinkling.

They venture out again for dinner. Eliot asks, “Feeling up for a crowd, darling?” and for once, Quentin finds that he actually is. So they wander their way through Covent Garden, ducking into stores and little specialty food shops, and somehow it feels more like a quest than going shopping. They eat dinner at a little terrace restaurant, Margo and Eliot chatting about all the places they want to take him, all the things they need to do. Quentin, for his part, feels exhaustion catching up with him, content to listen with Eliot’s hand on his thigh under the table. He just likes the sound of their voices, really, being with them. It feels good to be here with them. 

“You two should go get some sleep,” Margo says, amused, when Eliot breaks off in the middle of a sentence to yawn, hugely. “I’m going to go get laid, I think.”

She’s so matter of fact about it, that it startles a laugh out of Quentin. Eliot just smiles at her though, that _Margo_ smile that’s just– enamored and impressed and affectionate. Quentin likes that smile– it’s maybe his second or third favorite of Eliot’s smiles; after the _‘Quentin’s rambling about something’_ smile and the ‘ _I’m getting my dick sucked’_ smile.

He’s got half a mind to try to conjure that last one, when they find themselves back in a hotel room with privacy and time. Except, well. Neither of them really slept the night before, and he’s really fucking tired. It’s hard to be motivated to do more than curl up in the bed and kiss, especially when the kissing is _so_ good. Being kissed by Eliot is always so good, steady and safe, warm and sweet. 

“I can jerk you off,” Quentin offers, mumbling against Eliot’s mouth in the low light from the lamp on the bedside table, hand wandering down to cup between Eliot’s legs. He’s not hard, and it’s– such a weird, intimate thing, to hold him like this, soft and vulnerable against Quentin’s palm. Against his lips, Eliot draws a slow, deep breath, but then he shakes his head, smiling against Quentin’s mouth.

“Go to sleep, Q,” he whispers, and almost without meaning to, Quentin does. 

They do the tourist thing the next day, and it’s– it’s fucking _fun_ , okay? It’s kind of stupidly, ridiculously fun. Margo and Quentin drag Eliot down to King’s Cross Station, and they spend as long as they can get away with messing around with the trolly cart embedded half-way in the wall at one of the gates. Eliot plays the part of their long-suffering camera man, directing them as they pose for action shot after action shot. One stands out among the collection, where it actually looks like Margo’s dragging Quentin by that hand through a gate to another world. 

It ends up as the new background of Eliot’s phone, but none of them comment on it.

Quentin gets a new background of his own, as they wander down the Thames, taking in the sights. Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, all of it sights Quentin’s seen in movies and TV shows his whole life. Harry Potter and Doctor Who come to life in front of him, and he can’t even find himself bothered by the crowds or the heat. They pause on a tourist-packed bridge looking out over the South Bank, where the London Eye reaches up towards the sky. 

“We should take a picture for my dad,” Quentin mutters to Eliot, who’s leaning against the railing next to him, sunglasses on his nose, wearing a light floral shirt that should honestly look like wallpaper, except it’s Eliot so of course he looks amazing. He always looks amazing. “You’re the one with selfie-sticks for arms, so– take a selfie with me?”

“C’mere then,” Eliot laughs, opening up to welcome Quentin into his space. It’s tricky to find an angle that includes him and Eliot and any kind of background, that isn’t completely washed out by sunlight, but Eliot’s patient and a giant, and has very long arms. The final one they end up with is the two of them, tucked close together with Eliot’s arm around his shoulders, Quentin’s temple against Eliot’s jaw, the clock tower rising like a spire up in the background next to Quentin’s shoulder. He does send it to his dad and sets it as his background, before doing his duty as friend and boyfriend, and taking about 37 pictures of Eliot and Margo, together and on their own.

There’s a reply text waiting for him, when he glances back down at his own phone. 

**(From Dad) 2:34pm** _Glad you boys are having a good time. Everything’s fine here. Say “hi” to Eliot for me._

Grinning, feeling a little bit of relief, honestly, that nothing’s gone to shit in the last 24 hours at least, Quentin passes along the message.

Time flies by in a whirlwind. Eliot had been right, there was no possible way for them to see it all, so they pick and choose. One day they spend a morning on a bus tour, visiting all the major sights via double decker bus. Margo with her big sun hat and flowy dress keeps getting chatted up by tourists until she demands Quentin switch seats with her so she can sit in the curve of Eliot's arms, and Quentin's left the odd man out in their little block of 4 seats. He can't really complain, he's barely able to sit still the whole time anyway, and his flailing limbs seem to be enough to deter anyone from trying to sit next to him. That, and the fact that he's not a hot girl.

"You could just sit in my lap," Eliot suggests, a salacious grin on his face, and honestly, it's tempting. Quentin's pretty fond of sitting in Eliot's lap, the way Eliot's arms twist around his waist and tug him back, solid chest to lean back against, safe and secure.

"I'd probably just end up elbowing you in the face," he admits, and next to him Margo snorts. For a handful of heartbeats, he gets caught up in how they look together, so beautiful and elegant and _right_ , he can only imagine how they must have looked spread out on the beaches of Barcelona, or twisting together in clubs to dance away their summer of nothing. And somehow, _he_ gets to be here, with _them_. They chose him, and they keep choosing him and he feels so fucking– _lucky._ Then Buckingham palace rolls into view, and he gets distracted, turning to look as the tour guide starts giving her practiced speech.

That afternoon they venture out to 221B Baker St and wait in line for an hour to visit an honestly kind of dingy little recreation of the Sherlock Holmes flat. More fun are the couple of hours after in the Holmes themed pub nearby, getting increasingly drunk and silly until Eliot ends up wearing Margo's sun hat and they both try to convince Quentin to wear her shoes.

"Do you _want_ to experience the healthcare system of another country?" Quentin grumbles, Margo's feet thump up into his lap: big block wedge heels tied around her ankles with ribbon. "Because I will break something. I can't walk in _my shoes_ half the time."

"'S right," Eliot confirms, giggling into Margo's hair. "He falls over every time he tries to take his shirt off."

"Not _every_ time," Quentin protests, but, well. A lot of the time. Smiling sweetly at Eliot, he says, "That's why you should take it off for me."

This earns not a small amount of cat-calling and jeering from Margo, and by the time they stumble out of the pub and into a cab back to their hotel, Quentin's feeling effervescent. Bright. Their separate rooms don’t seem to matter that night as they all tumble down onto the bed in Quentin and Eliot's room, clothes and all.

"Gotta take our make-up off," Margo says to Eliot, who's in the middle of the bed, long and warm and comfortable against Quentin's front. He snuggles in, nose tucking in at the back of Eliot's neck. He smells _so_ good, he always smells so fucking good it’s not _fair_ , and Quentin kisses the skin just under the soft little curls at the base of his skull, feeling the vibration of Eliot's voice in his chest. He's saying something to Margo, but Quentin's not really paying attention, already half-asleep.

He wakes up first, hungover and head-achy, to the bright light of the morning. They're all still in bed together, though someone (hopefully Eliot) was nice enough to get Quentin out of his jeans. Margo's curled around Eliot's back, wearing one of Quentin's own clean t shirts, and Eliot's sprawled out in the middle of the bed, hand tangled with the one Margo has thrown over his waist, the other reached out to settle on Quentin's chest, naked but for his underwear. They're so lovely, so _fucking_ beautiful, and so comfortable together, and suddenly all Quentin can think about is–

Julia.

Julia, curling up in Quentin's bed the morning after a party in undergrad, hungover and upset about something or other. They'd– had a rhythm, hadn't they, in the first couple years before James started functionally living with them, because Quentin was almost never as hungover as she was. She'd stumbled into his room– which was really an office, curtains hung over the glass doors into the living room of her loft and no closet– she'd stumble in and curl on top of the blankets and cried a little, and he'd held her hand and then run down to the bodega on the corner for egg sandwiches and coffee, and they'd spend the whole day ignoring their homework and binge-watching something on her laptop– _Doctor Who_ or _Parks and Rec_ or _Community_ and she'd rested her head on his shoulder and said–

_"Glad I've got a best friend like you, Q_."

And he'd been fucking _jealous_. That he couldn't have more? Like having what he had of her wasn't enough, when he didn't even know easy it would be to _lose_. That it could happen by _accident_ , that she might just– drift out of his life.

Extricating himself from the bed is tricky. Eliot's a light sleeper, and when Quentin slips out of the bed, Eliot reaches after him, curling in towards the vacant space. Heartsore, Quentin stops long enough to reach out and settle him, slide his hand into Eliot's curls and stroke them back until he quiets, settles back into sleep. He finds his jeans folded over the back of the chair, and Eliot's cigarette case tucked into the inside pocket of his blazer. Fishing out a cigarette, Quentin swipes the keycard off the desk and stuffs his feet into his shoes, heading out to smoke.

His bad mood coalesces over his head like a rain cloud, and hangs over him for the rest of the day. He tries not to let it bring them down, he really does, but it's difficult to find the enthusiasm he would normally be able to conjure for the Tower of London, the Crown Jewels, all of it– none of it quite feels real. Physical. Solid. He slips away from the other two once they've finished their tour and Margo and Eliot disappear into the giftshop, heading up the grassy slope of a hill towards a small wall he can perch on. There's a pretty good view of the city from here, and he sits, and tries to just– make himself look. _Be present_. Half-remembered grounding exercises from therapists and from inpatient treatment centers flit through his mind, but that's always easier to do when it's anxiety he's fighting against. Being grounded is harder to reach when nothing feels real, even the ground.

It's Margo who comes to find him first, which he's a little surprised about. He shouldn't be, it's often been Margo who pulls him out of his head, after the Welters tournament, and during the trials. Margo, who’d sat with him and said _‘the best way to get what you want is to be so miserable that you don’t want it anymore_.’ It had felt profound, then, and now– now he’s not sure how he feels about it, when every day it feels like he’s gained _so much_ and is also losing _so much_ too.

"If your boyfriend spends $200 on fake jewelry, I'm _going_ to make him wear it," Margo calls up to him, swerving around a couple little kids horsing around with a look of distaste that almost, _almost_ , makes Quentin smile. "Big fuck-off chunky necklaces and all."

"He could make it work," Quentin calls back, which like– he probably could, but what the fuck does Quentin know about it.

"Oh honey, no he couldn't," Margo sighs, perching next to Quentin on the wall. "So, do you actually want to Eeyore alone right now, or do you wanna tell Mama what's wrong?"

“Nothing wrong,” he lies, looking out across the city.

“Right,” Margo agrees, dry, sarcastic, and he can’t look at her. Doesn’t want to know what her face is doing. “So like– you don’t have to tell me, but don’t bullshit me either, Coldwater. Nut up or shut up.” 

“But nothing _is_ wrong. Or like–Sometimes I feel like I just don’t know the point of it anymore,” Quentin says, all in a rush, as Margo leans back on her hands. Her feet come into his line of sight, wearing sandals that must be magicked to avoid giving her blisters with all the walking they’ve been doing today. Her toenails are painted with flecks of gold, reflections of bright sparklingly light. “We’re just– stupid monkeys, who have to eat and shit and sleep so we can stay alive long enough to fuck out tiny versions of ourselves. And what’s the point of any of that, when the world is so terrible and we all d-die, anyway.”

“Hm. I feel like I’m supposed to say love?” Margo says, dry enough that Quentin looks over at her. She’s smiling a little.

“Love’s just the brain response to make us want to do the little-versions-of-ourselves.” 

“Yeah, bullshit. The way I love has nothing to do with babies. It doesn’t really even have much to do with sex. Are you going to sit there and tell me that the way I love Eliot or you is less important?” Margo asks, sounding– gentler, than he’d have expected. “Do you really believe that, Q?”

“No,” he admits, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I still– Why do we even fucking bother, when everything’s so... hard?”

“Beautiful magic,” Margo offers, sitting up so her shoulder brushes his arm. “Good books. The satisfaction of winning. Chocolate croissants that are better than sex.” 

“I’m not sure you’re having sex right,” Quentin returns weakly, and she grins at him, catlike. 

“Things are terrible, your dad is dying and your best friend’s not talking to you–”

“Eliot’s my best friend–”

“Your best friend who you don’t fuck isn’t talking to you. You’re allowed to rage against the dying of the light for a while,” Margo says, squinting at him shrewdly. “What you’re not allowed to do is give up, or start thinking you're stuck in this shit alone. Because you’re not. Me and El are a package deal, but that doesn’t just mean you have to share him with me. It means I take some of your shit too.”

“Doesn’t seem fair to you,” Quentin mutters, looking back down at their feet. She pokes him with her toes, jabbing against the meat of his calf. 

“Tough.” 

The day does, admittedly, get better from there.

Not a lot, but– they get ice cream from a near-by shack, and share three flavors around between them. The strawberry is predictably pronounced disgusting by Eliot and Margo, so Quentin eats most of it because he honestly doesn’t care, but they still feed him bites of their chocolate and coffee. Eliot kisses him, softly, when Margo goes to throw the cups away, and it tastes a bit like chocolate. 

“Doing okay?” Eliot asks, after the kiss breaks, and when Quentin shrugs half-heartedly, Eliot nods, fingers sifting through Quentin’s hair, gently. It makes small shivers trace down Quentin’s spine, makes him lean a little into the shelter of Eliot’s body. “Yeah, okay. I figured. We’ll take it easy for the rest of the day, okay?”

“We came all this way–” Quentin starts, frustrated, but Eliot shakes his head. 

“Don’t worry about it. We can still have fun, even if we’re not rushing around.” 

“I’m not going to have fun today,” Quentin mulishly, as Margo reappears.

“You’re allowed to have a bad day,” she informs him, hands on her hips. “But if you’re not gonna have a good time anyway, wanna go hold bags for me and El while we shop in Oxford Circus? That way at least you’re not grumping your way through something you feel like you should be enjoying.”

Which, as a theory, turns out to be pretty correct. Quentin _hates_ shopping for clothes for himself, but he doesn’t _really_ mind tagging along with them. And at least, sitting in Topman watching Eliot try on blazers, if he zones out or gets lost in his brain, he’s not _missing_ anything. Anything besides his boyfriend being like– confusingly hot in a bunch of different colors, and that’s somehow just a normal part of Quentin’s life these days.

He begs off early, that night, leaving Eliot and Margo to a bottle of wine and gossip in her room. 

“You can stay, even if you just want to read,” Eliot says, with the bone-deep kindness that he can’t even see, and Quentin just– kisses him, soft, rubs their noses together a little while Margo makes fake gagging noises. 

“I want some alone time,” he admits, and Eliot just nods.

He doesn’t register falling asleep before Eliot comes back, but he must, because he wakes up to the sunlight of midmorning and the sound of water cascading in the bathroom. The bed is warm, in the empty space next to Quentin, sheets only gone cool where they touch the air, and Quentin sighs, rolling sleepily into the abandoned space. 

Eliot’s singing in the shower. It’s something he does often, really, so Quentin’s not surprised. Knowing anything about Eliot at all, you'd be more surprised if he _didn’t_. 

It’s nice, though. Eliot’s a good singer, and listening to him sing at any time is nice. But there’s something about the lack of performance involved, the way he sometimes loops back and repeats verses just because he likes them, it feels like a window into something no one gets to see. Quentin can lay in bed, on the weirdly dense hotel mattress that is nevertheless surprisingly comfortable, wrapped up in blankets and buried in pillows and just listen. Listen to Eliot sing, and just– not have to do anything else.

The singing stops when the shower shuts off, and Quentin mourns it, a little, comfortably sheltered in his little nest of pillows. God, can’t he just– lay here and listen to Eliot sing forever? 

He should probably get up, he thinks vaguely. Get up and shower himself, so they can– what were they doing today? The British Museum? He doesn’t remember, but– it’s probably something cool, something he’s going to look back on and be just– stunned, and delighted, that he got to do this, that he got to do it with _these people_. But the bed’s comfortable, and the pillows smell like Eliot, or one of them does, at least, if he chases the scent. 

A plume of sweet-smelling hot damp air precedes Eliot out of the bathroom, and well, Quentin rolls over to watch him walk out because he’s not an _idiot_ , okay? A single towel clings to Eliot’s hips, putting up a valiant effort, but– he really is mostly naked, and Quentin’s allowed to _look_. He’s _welcome_ , in fact, to curl a pillow under his chin and trace the lines of Eliot’s torso, the wide boney span of his shoulders and his solid chest, the hair dark with water from the shower and his rosey pink nipples. The thatch of neat dark hair between his hip bones is just visible above the towel, and by the time Quentin’s done admiring that he’s been caught staring, Eliot smirking at him behind his tumble of wet curls.

“Good morning to you too,” Eliot murmurs, crawling catlike up the bed, nosing in to kiss, _oh_ – _kiss_ Quentin, in the comfortable nest of pillows and blankets he’s burrowed for himself. A kiss turns into several, turns into Eliot sliding down onto the bed, wet hair be damned, his towel well and truly having given up by now. 

“Do we have somewhere urgent to go this morning?” Quentin asks, curling towards Eliot’s body as he sprawls out on his back on the bed, kiss-pink mouth and arm out in invitation. His skin is flush-warm from the shower when Quentin settles against him, still just the slightest bit damp where water clings to the hair on his body. 

“Darling, we are on vacation,” Eliot replies gently, scooting and maneuvering and manhandling until Quentin’s half laying on top of him. God, all that warm skin– he smells clean, when Quentin drops his face down against Eliot’s chest, nose and mouth against the warm skin and scratchy hair between his pectorals. “We don’t have to go anywhere if we don’t want to.”

“Seems like a waste,” Quentin points out, pressing a kiss over Eliot’s heart and then turning his head, so he can rest his cheek there instead. Gazing unfocused acrossed Eliot’s pec and shoulder, the pale skin of his bicep, he can hear the beat of Eliot’s heart under his ear. “To come all this way, I mean, and then spend the day in bed.”

“I don’t think you can fail vacation,” Eliot points out cheerfully. His fingers slide up into Quentin’s hair, pushing it off his forehead and then just– petting, gently, against his scalp. It feels nice, soothing, and Quentin lets his eyes fall shut, rubbing his cheek a little against Eliot’s chest. “I’m happy to stay in bed with you all day.”

Quentin snorts. “Well, when you put it like that...” he sighs, wriggling around until he can be fully on top of Eliot, cradled in the V of his thighs. They’re not hard, either of them, but it’s kind of fascinating to feel Eliot’s soft dick against his lower belly, a warm, animal feeling. _All your soft parts against my soft parts_. Eliot’s arms loop around his shoulders, hugging him, and it’s– god, it’s so dumb but it feels so safe. Face buried in Eliot’s chest, Quentin’s eyes prickle, caught up and surrounded, _safe_. 

He has to put all that feeling _somewhere_ , so he kisses up across the swell of Eliot’s pec, feeling the scratchy texture of hair under his mouth. God, it’s not– When he’d thought about what attraction to men felt like, as a teenager, it wasn’t like _this_ feature prominently. It had been all– big hands and square jaws and strong arms, and yeah, okay _yeah_ , cocks, what it would feel like to have one in his mouth or in his ass, the same way he’d always kind of hungrily just wanted to– stick his face in every pair of tits he saw, so maybe _that’s_ not changed that much. 

But he likes it, god, he really does, the scratch of Eliot’s hair against his mouth, against his cheek, the way he can wind his fingers into it and tug a little. And like, honestly, thank god Eliot’s ‘ _we don’t do personal grooming for other people_ ’ never extended to waxing because Quentin would _miss_ this. He kisses Eliot’s rosey pink nipple hello while he’s there, Eliot’s happy sigh rumbling in his chest. Then, because he can, he bites, lightly, in the meat of Eliot’s pec.

“Ah,” comes the soft cry, and Eliot’s hand in his hair tugs a little. Which is, _mmm_ , nice. Good. It makes the encroaching fog in his brain recede a little. Still, he lets go, kissing softly over the barely-there indents on Eliot’s chest, lips and tongue as Eliot squirms a little. 

“Bad?” Quentin asks, because he’s– it’s not like this is something he’s done before. He just– god, he just wants to put his mouth _everywhere,_ on every single fucking inch of Eliot’s skin.

“I’m happy to indulge if you’re feeling it,” Eliot breathes out, laughing. “You’re going to end up with chest hair stuck in your teeth, though.”

“What, that’s not a hot look for you?” Quentin asks, teasing, feeling tender and– and _held_ , as Eliot’s hand cups his cheek. But he ducks down pointedly, kissing a bitey, sucking kiss at the tender skin just under Eliot’s pec, where the hair lightens down to peach fuzz. It makes Eliot squirm, and that’s– _especially_ interesting, when Quentin’s pressed all up between his thighs. 

It’s only then that the implication of the position comes into clarity in his head, what being situated like this could mean, what it could lead to. And well, Eliot did _put_ him here, but– Quentin still can’t forget the panicked race of his heart, the way he hadn’t even been able to look at Quentin when he’d said ‘ _I didn’t even mean to think it’_. And god, Quentin had meant it when he said he didn’t need it, so he stops his biting kisses, pushing back up to rest his chin comfortably on Eliot’s chest. 

Hazel eyes blink down at him, confused, a little laced with arousal. “I didn’t– you don’t have to stop.”

“I’m probably going to get hard, if I keep going,” Quentin admits, because, well– his dick is tucked up right beneath Eliot’s balls, and it feels _good_ , that soft warm skin against him, it feels _good_ to taste Eliot against his tongue, to rub his nose and mouth against Eliot’s skin. “I didn’t want to seem pushy.”

Comprehension and something unhappy twist in Eliot’s face, before it closes off a little. And no, that’s not what Quentin wants at all, god, _can’t do anything right, can you, god, why are you so bad at this, so bad a sex, it’s amazing anyone’s ever even let you_ – “I don’t think you’ve got a pushy bone in your body, Q,” Eliot says gently, pulling him up out of his brain with a sweet scratch of fingers across his scalp.

“I can just suck your dick,” Quentin offers, because that– _hunger_ is still there, god, _gotta get my mouth on him_.

“Tempting,” Eliot muses, fingers brushing against Quentin’s lips long enough for him to kiss them, fleeting and then gone. Feelings war on Eliot’s face, then they crystallize into something like resolve. “Or we could take some baby steps. And you could put that pretty mouth on me. I am shower-clean, after all.”

Which, oh _god_ – just the idea of it sparkles bright along the paths in Quentin’s mind that are just stuck on a loop of _kiss him, want to kiss him everywhere._ And god, if it can feel even _half_ as good as it does when Eliot’s done it to _him–_

“I mean, yeah, I’d– if you’re sure, I really don’t want to push, but. God, I’d love that.”

The shutter in Eliot’s face falls away, the warm affection spilling out on his features. And that’s maybe Quentin’s favorite look, right there, to be looked at like that– it feels like a gift.

“Sit up for a second?” Eliot asks, and Quentin does, pushing back until he’s folded in the middle of the bed, sunlight streaming through the room. God, it’s– the _idea_ of having sex in broad daylight would have terrified him, ten years ago, but now he wants Eliot’s skin in the sunlight, all of him. The muscles in his stomach flex as he pushes to sit up too, and Quentin tries to make himself focus, on whatever Eliot’s got to say that’s important enough that it can’t be said lying down. But Eliot stays close, close enough for their knees to touch, for him to take Quentin’s hands. “Hey, you.”

“Hey.” Quentin rolls his eyes, fondly, and he’s surprised, somehow, when Eliot kisses him, short and sweet.

“This isn’t new ground for me,” Eliot says, nuzzling their faces together. “I can take your tongue or your fingers and not have a crisis about it, baby, I promise.”

“Oh,” Quentin says, dumb, excitement sparking in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, smiling, and Quentin can’t help but smile back. "Glad the idea of being first isn't part of the appeal for you."

Quentin snorts, reaching out to poke Eliot in the chest. "No, that's your thing," he accuses, because what, is he supposed to pretend he doesn't _know_? But Eliot shrugs, shameless, and Quentin curls his fingers in against Eliot's chest hair, tugging a little. “No, it's better if you know what you like, then you can um– you can tell me how to do it? Like you did the first time I sucked your dick? Tell me what– show me what you like?” 

Real heat sparks in Eliot's eyes, now, a slow smile sliding across his face. "Mm, you do like it when I talk to you," he agrees, biting a lip that's pretty pink and kiss-soft. Quentin nods, feeling a little embarrassed and hot about it, tugging pointedly at Eliot's chest. "Yeah, I'll tell you what I like, don't worry, sweetheart." 

Quentin doesn't _mean_ to shiver, but he totally does. The grin on Eliot's face says he notices, and the way he pushes in for another kiss says he likes it. God, how fucking lucky is Quentin, that Eliot _likes_ all his weirdness? Poised on the edge of another self-recrimination spiral, it's hard to remember to kiss back, until Eliot's hand’s in his hair, and then he does have to _think_ much at all.

"Why don't you start out by giving my dick some attention, huh?" Eliot coaches when he pulls back, tugging Quentin's hair and petting him, rubbing their noses together. "Get me hard, sweet boy."

That, Quentin can do. God, he can definitely do that. Eliot makes no move to lean back, though, braced on one arm, his other hand in Quentin's hair. It makes the feeling of going _down_ stronger, when Eliot actually has a lap for Quentin to stick his face in. Heat burns up Quentin cheeks, but God, he loves this. Tongue out, he licks gently out at Eliot's soft cock, shyly tucked away in its foreskin. He smells _good_ here, musky and earthy, but still a bit like body wash, sharp and spicy, clean. Quentin feels _hungry_ , god, he's just– wants to rub his face all over Eliot's whole body, a deeply animal urge to just _smell like him_. 

Eliot makes a happy little sound when Quentin readjusts enough to get his hand down between Eliot's legs, gently push his cock and balls up enough that Quentin can tongue the tip, slide his tongue in between the tender skin and the spongy head, his favorite thing. Fuck, he loves this, he loves Eliot's cock, the way it twitches and responds. Very gently, he takes it into his mouth, soft but plumping up as he suckles a little.

“That’s it,” Eliot murmurs, his hand heavy in Quentin’s hair, gathering it back, pulling it up so he can– _see my face when I suck it, oh god._ Quentin’s eyes fall shut, trying not to think about it, a hot flush of embarrassment that just makes his own cock _throb._ A pulse of pleasure rolls down between his legs as Eliot’s cock moves on his tongue, twitching as it fills. It’s like _nothing_ else, feeling Eliot go hard in his mouth, knowing that _he_ did this. That he’s making Eliot feel like this. “Suck a little,” Eliot prompts, and when Quentin does he groans, a low resonant sound, breath going deep and long. 

Quentin wants to _see_ him, but that would mean moving from where he is now, curled low in a hunch with his head between Eliot’s legs, and he doesn’t– doesn’t _want_ that, doesn’t want to move when he feels so contained like this, Eliot’s hand holding his hair in a messy pile, the warmth of Eliot’s thighs brushing his cheeks, the deep rich smell of him. God, Quentin’s mouth is _watering_ , saliva sliding down Eliot’s half-hard cock, making Quentin’s face wet, Eliot’s balls wet, and maybe– back–

“Messy boy,” Eliot cooes, tugging a little at Quentin’s hair. Not pulling him back, just– just tugging. Because he knows Quentin likes it, because it makes him moan, which makes Eliot get _harder_ , hot and silky on Quentin’s tongue. He can _feel_ it when Eliot’s hips flex a little, the strain of muscle as his cock slides into Quentin’s mouth a little deeper, not even– fuck, not even all the way hard and nudging at the back of Quentin’s throat. “That’s okay, I like it sloppy.”

“ _Fuck_ , El,” Quentin pants, pulling off, because if he doesn’t he’s going to fucking– start humping the bed, or something equal embarassing, god, but– Eliot’s balls are right there, and Quentin can just– lick them, can’t he? Carefully, just fucking– rub against Eliot with his whole mouth, with his lips and cheek and tongue. That smell is so _strong_ and Quentin feels like he’s _losing his mind–_

“Eager,” Eliot teases, tugging Quentin’s hair with purpose this time, to get him up, “Come up here, come kiss me before you put your mouth on my ass, come on.”

“No kisses after?” Quentin asks, pouting a little because it makes Eliot grin slowly, smile spreading across his face as Quentin settles into his lap. 

“Only if you’re very good,” he mutters, pushing in, mouth against Quentin’s wet, messy mouth, catching him by the back of the neck and holding while Quentin– _moans_ , pushing up into him, kissing– eating softly at his burning hot mouth, _dear fucking god_ –

“I’ll be good,” he whispers into Eliot’s mouth, and it’s supposed to be– _teasing_ , like Eliot’s teasing him, but it comes out painfully, painfully earnest. He’d be too fucking embarrassed to even handle it, if it didn’t make Eliot twitch up into him, Eliot’s big hand on his neck go tight for a moment, holding him close as Eliot just– _fucks his tongue_ into Quentin’s open, eager mouth.

“I know you will, sweet boy,” Eliot murmurs, and Quentin feels _warm_ , god– burying his face in Eliot’s neck as Eliot’s body pushes up into his– Their cocks brush, hard against their bellies, and when Quentin looks down to watch them– it’s like they’re saying hello to each other, Quentin’s– barely coming half of the way up Eliot’s. 

“Please let me put my mouth on you,” he– begs, fucking hell, rubbing his nose and mouth against Eliot’s collarbone, sucking at his skin just to have _something_.

“Yeah, okay, let me just–” Then Eliot’s kissing him once more, twice more, three times more until Quentin’s giggling against his lips, then Eliot’s guiding him away by the hips. He sprawls backwards across the mattress, head landing in the pile of pillow Quentin had been hiding in earlier, feet braced on the mattress. “Like this, yeah? I want to be able to hold on to you.”

“Mkay,” Quentin agrees, and sliding between Eliot’s spread legs. God, his fucking _legs_ , they go on for _days,_ he’s so long everywhere. Quentin stops long enough to kiss the inside of one of Eliot’s knees, because he can, because he likes– _every_ bit of Eliot, so stupid much. “What do you want me to do?”

Eliot draws in a deep breath, and Quentin watches his belly flex with it, dark hair trailing up from the neat patch between his legs, hard cock stretching up to his belly button. Quentin licks his lips, unthinkingly, and Eliot chuffs out a breath, reaching out for him. “Come here, start slow, just– like you were before, lick my balls and get them nice and wet, okay?”

So Quentin does.

On his belly on the bed, his own cock trapped against the mattress, he buries his face against the soft furred skin between Eliot's legs, licking and sucking on Eliot’s balls until he’s prompted to move further back, and it’s– Quentin’s always _loved_ giving head, really, actually loved it. It’s probably true he’s better at blowjobs than anything else– because it’s hard to do a blowjob _wrong_ , isn’t it, as long as you keep your teeth out of the way. But there’s a different kind of ache that comes with keeping your jaw open to lick out, and it– he _wants_ it, fuck, he wants it with _Eliot_ , wants to have this, give him this, _so badly._

So when Eliot pulls his own leg up, bracing– _fuck_ – bracing his foot against Quentin’s shoulder, it’s– so much, he’s so fucking _hungry for it_. “Spread me open with your thumbs,” Eliot breathes out, and there’s just the finest tremor in his voice, in control but not unaffected, not by a long shot. Quentin does as he’s told, sliding his palms under the meat of Eliot’s ass– _fuck_ – and hooking his thumbs in, brushing against tender, private skin as he pulls, gentle, exposing shower clean soft pink skin and the soft furl of Eliot’s hole.

“ _El-iot_ ,” he whimpers, voice cracking on the second syllable but he’s– his mouth is wet, god, he wants– _he wants_ – brushing his thumb gently against that tender skin, he watches the muscle contract and thinks, animal and needy– _I have to be inside there_.

“Start slow,” Eliot instructs, hand gathering up Quentin’s hair again, and he should maybe find an _elastic_ , except Eliot seems to like it loose, likes being able to mess it up. “Just kiss me, baby– _yeah,_ like that.”

It’s– god, it’s easy to find a rhythm with Eliot, it always is. He’s vocal about what he likes, and happy to offer direction if Quentin starts seeming aimless, but he also just– lets Quentin explore, as much as he wants, and _god_ he wants. Kissing at Eliot’s hole, lips and open mouth against the delicate skin until Eliot tells him to use his tongue, and then he does and it’s– the feeling of it, jaw wide, tongue out against the slippery skin, nose up tight under Eliot’s balls, the truth of him filling all of Quentin’s senses.

“ _Fuck_ , Q, like that, yeah, just– right over– _god,_ yes,” Eliot pants above him, and Quentin’s left chasing his sounds, following the things that make his breath hitch, the make his hips twitch back. It’s new and different but it’s also _familiar_ , and it’s Eliot, and Quentin can give himself over wholly to this. Just let his eyes fall closed and get lost in the feeling of yielding skin under his mouth, hot and wet and musky.

It’s intoxicating, the way Eliot just– opens up under his mouth, in increments, muscle going slack, baring back as Quentin does what feels right, does what he’s told. Everything’s so messy and wet his thumbs are slipping and it’s– it’s hard to keep him open, maybe, so Quentin just pushes his face in more while Eliot tugs on his hair and rides back and _moans_ , god, the way he _sounds_ –

“Get your thumbs–” Eliot pants, petting clumsily at Quentin’s hair, “so you can lick inside, come on, Q.” So he does, and Eliot _swears_ , hips pushing back while Quentin _licks inside his body_ , god. Starving, he’s fucking staving, he wants to just– god, just lick and lick and lick and lick until he can’t anymore, until his jaw’s too sore, until Eliot’s come again and again from Quentin’s mouth, _god, I need to make him come_.

The slick skin-on-skin sound of Eliot’s hand moving on his cock, fast and needy, hits the air and fuck– Quentin can see it, in his mind’s eye, Eliot’s beautiful Magician’s hand wrapped around his big gorgeous dick, the foreskin slipping with the movement– _god, yes, please, come_ – while Quentin fuckings as much of his tongue into Eliot’s body as he can. Eliot comes with a shout, and Quentin can _feel it_ , deep and intimate, feel the muscle at his mouth squeeze down, feel Eliot’s balls draw up, feel everything go tight around him, as Eliot swears and comes all over his own stomach and chest and it’s– it’s everything Quentin can do not to cream himself, right there, rutting down against the bed with his mouth on Eliot’s tender skin. 

He stops when Eliot starts to shy away, pushing himself up to– rest against Eliot’s hip as his legs fall down to rest, catch his breath. Eliot’s panting, shocky, petting clumsily at Quentin’s hair, and everything here smells like sweat and come, watching Eliot’s dick twitch against his belly, shiny with splatters of come. Quentin pushes up to lick one, thoughtless, and the muscle of Eliot’s stomach jumps under his mouth, and breathed out moan of, “ _God, Q–_ baby, fuck. _”_

“Can I–” Quentin starts, and then loses his nerve partway through, burying his face against Eliot’s sternum, in the soft smooth skin before the rough scratch of his chest hair starts. He’s fucking– smearing Eliot’s come all over both of them, and all he can think about it, needy hungry animal thought, is: _good_. 

“What could you possibly be shy about now?” Eliot asks, half a laugh, as he touches Quentin’s wet face, pets his hair, touches him, _touches him_ , Eliot’s touch is so fucking– perfect. “Ask me, baby.”

Quentin takes a deep breath, face burning, digging his nose into Eliot’s skin as he asks “Can I come on your chest?”

“ _Fuck._ ” Eliot twitches a little, and Quentin grins against his skin, helpless. “Yeah, you can, come up here.”

Pushing up, Quentin moves up until he’s fucking– _spread_ , straddling Eliot’s ribs as Eliot’s hands land on the outside of his thighs, slide up the skin and back to squeeze at Quentin’s ass while he– _gasping_ – reaches down to curl his hand around his own dick. He’s so fucking– _primed_ , a shivering mess of animal need, staring down at Eliot under him, Eliot smiling up at him, Eliot covered in his own come and– _arching up_ , for Quentin’s. “I–” he asks, hand tugging desperately on his cock, staring, helpless, at the whorls of dark hair, soft pink nipples, scattered freckles across his ribs. “– El, _fuck–_ I just want–”

“Yeah, I know,” Eliot breathes back, and wow, wonderful, Quentin actually has no idea what he wants besides just to _make Eliot smell like him_ , maybe, so it’s good that one of them does. “Come on, baby, rub that sweet little cock until you make a mess all over me.”

That– _fuck_ – that, that’s exactly what Quentin wants.

He manages to keep his eyes open and watch, but only just, as pleasure crests inside him, balls clenching up and unloading, sweet bursts of _good, god, it feels so good_ , as streaks of white paint out across Eliot’s chest, catching in the hair, up to his throat, across a nipple. It’s– honestly one of the most blazingly erotic things Quentin’s ever done in his life, fuck, he’s going to be jerking off about this _until he dies_. One of Eliot’s hands is still cupping his ass, the other has– settled on his ribs, helping keep Quentin up while he stares, dumbstruck, at his own come– on Eliot’s chest. Reaches out, half-aware, to rub a streak of it into Eliot’s skin, the hair scratchy under his fingers, slick with–

“ _Fuck,_ Eliot,” he breathes out, and then he’s giggling, and Eliot’s giggling too, and reaching up to catch Quentin’s cheek with his left hand and pull him down and in for– a kiss, which must mean Quentin was good, after all. 

Settling against Eliot’s chest, this time with his own legs spread over Eliot’s hips, he pulls back, grinning a little. There’s– a pleasant soreness starting in his jaw and tongue, as Eliot pets at his messy face. “You say ‘ _fuck, Eliot_ ’ like this is my fault, but honestly I’m kind of feeling like I was just along for the ride with your oral fixation today,” Eliot says, and he sounds _happy_ , and _Quentin did that_. He tucks his face down against Eliot’s collarbones to hide his smile, only to find– well, a streak of his own come, naturally. Humming, he licks it, sucking a little until all he can taste is Eliot’s skin.

“I think you need to take another shower,” he says eventually, when he can bring himself to pull back and there’s a moment of– unsticking, as their skin pulls apart from the drying come.

“Gee, you think?” Eliot asks with a laugh, arms going up tight around Quentin’s shoulders in a good, solid hug. Heart in his throat, Quentin wriggles his arms under Eliot’s ribs to hug back, feeling– tender, and so safe.

They do end up leaving the hotel eventually. Margo’s not one to let anyone blow her off for long, so she gives them about half the day, then bursts her way in and drags them out. Quentin still feels– clingy, a bit, but it’s kind of nice to walk tucked under Eliot’s arm, resplendent as ever in red and gold, carelessly handsome. It really does feel like protection, like he’d stumbled through saying weeks ago. Like Eliot’s personality, his self-confidence, really is a barrier against the world that somehow Quentin’s slipped inside of. He gets to be in here, against Eliot’s hip, inside the shield like maybe it can help keep some of Quentin’s own demons at bay too. 

Wandering around their little borrowed neighborhood hasn’t been high on the priority list, but they do it now. They find a bakery full of delicate looking treats, and Eliot buys a slice of cake with eight thin rainbow layers to share while Margo gets some delicate little macarons. They eat outside the shop, sharing a fork and giggles and brief kisses between them while Margo makes faces at them, and it feels– good. Like maybe even if he can’t get away from the encroaching fog, they can keep it at bay together. It’s a nice thought. Wandering takes them past shops and restaurants, until it’s late enough that they can slip into a pub for warm beer and chips, holding hands under the table.

“I’m glad I came here,” Quentin admits, licking the salt and malt vinegar off his fingers as the noise of the pub fills around them, warm texture to the room. 

Eliot squeezes his hand under the table, big palm against Quentin’s and fingers laced together. “I’m glad, too, darling.”

____

Quentin kind of disappears, after London.

It’s not immediately obvious. How can it be, when they don’t exactly have open, easy lines of communication through the Brakebills wards. So far this summer they’ve mostly gotten by on emails, scheduling skype sessions in the process because standing at the payphone in the middle of the quad really only works for bursts of about 5 minutes, and only if it’s Eliot calling out. Quentin can’t call in, and unless Eliot’s off campus, texting isn’t an option.

So it takes a couple weeks, barrelling into mid-August, for the coincidences to become a pattern. But the email responses drop off from a couple of times a day to once a day, to a couple of days. No skype, and the tone of Quentin’s emails are, well– blank, honestly. He sounds blank. He sounds empty. By the time the second weekend rolls around, two weeks since their return from London, Eliot’s worried. Worried enough to try a phone call, Saturday morning, when the last email he got from Quentin was Thursday at 4am, a blank, toneless thing answering questions and not much else.

The phone call goes to voicemail immediately, which means Quentin’s phone is off or the battery’s dead, and it’s–

“Ted would get a hold of me, right?” Eliot asks Margo, pacing in a restless pattern around the ground floor of The Cottage. “If– god, if _he’s_ okay, what if– Margo, what if something happened to him and Quentin’s _alone_.”

“Then he’d fucking call you, like he did last time,” Margo points out, and when Eliot opens his mouth to object, she waves her hand. “Call you, email you, whatever. Q knows how to get ahold of you if he needs to.” 

“That doesn’t,” Eliot says, swallowing around the anxiety, “actually make me feel better, Margo.”

“Then go see him!” She huffs, in her long suffering _I did not sign up for this bullshit_ voice. “It’s not like you don’t know where he lives.”

“Isn’t that, I dunno– kind of creepy?”

“Eh, bring a boombox and it’s a rom-com,” Margo says with a shrug, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back into the couch. “I dunno, El, don’t be creepy about it and it won’t be creepy. Go up and knock on the front door and say you were worried, don’t sulk around in a bush.”

“I’m worried because I haven’t heard from him in two days. _Two days_. Objectively not a long period of time!” God, he sounds vaguely hysterical. 

“Two days is the amount of time you need to wait before reporting someone being missing to the police,” Margo points out, studying her nails like she’s bored. “Worse thing that happens, you get dinner and come home? It’s literally just a train ride, El.”

Just a train ride. 

Nothing weird about that. Just a portal through to New York, and then a text message, maybe, in case Quentin’s phone has turned back on the last hour:

**(To Cutie Q) 3:54pm** Hey, I’m in NYC. Think I might grab the train out your way, you free for dinner? Lmk. 

No reply.

No reply in the time it takes for Eliot to buy the ticket, no reply while he’s waiting on the now-familiar Penn Station platform, watching pigeons peck at the sad remains of a donut. No reply still as the train pulls into the station, or while Eliot’s boarding, or waiting for the conductor to come through and collect his ticket. No reply at all during the train ride, the slow fade of the cityscape giving way to suburbs, more trees and less concrete as New Jersey takes shape around the tracks. No reply before the train pulls into the station in Montclair, and no reply while Eliot waits for his Uber. No reply at all, even as the familiar street comes into view.

_What’s wrong with you_? he thinks, desperate, as the car pulls to a stop. _What the hell are you doing?_ Well, standing at the end of the driveway probably counts as 'being creepy about it' so Eliot squares up, deep breath, and walks up the path to the front door. The bell doesn't work, he knows, a long dead battery that no one's bothered to replace, so he knocks instead, a heavy thunk against the wood. The car’s in the driveway, so Ted should be home at the very least. He only has to wait a moment, before the door swings open. 

“Oh, hi, Eliot. Were we expecting you?” Ted asks, polite and welcoming but clearly a little confused. He’s pale and leaning heavily on the door frame, but not– imminently dying in an ER somewhere. A little pulse of relief shoots through Eliot’s chest, immediately followed by guilt. “Quentin’s been a little... absentminded. He might have forgotten to tell me.”

“I–” Eliot starts, then swallows, feeling the impulse to lie and then burying it, because if Quentin doesn’t want to see him then that’s something they’re going to have to deal with and lying about it isn’t going to make the situation _less_ awkward. “No, he didn’t, but I haven’t heard from him in a couple of days and– I was worried and it’s just like– a train ride, right? Is he okay?”

Ted sighs, moving back from the doorway, so Eliot can step into the house. “He’s– I mean, he’s not the worst I’ve ever seen him. I’m not– locking pills up, yet, or anything."

Eliot must blanch, or something, some kind of visible reaction to the swooping drop of – _oh fuck_ – as his stomach making friends with his knees, because it’s not like– It’s not like he doesn’t _know_ alright? It’s– He’d sat through that whole lecture from Julia about anti-depressants, and a more stumbling ‘ _sometimes my brain breaks_ ’ conversation with Quentin, when he’d been re-adjusting to the meds, getting– nauseous, at 3am, curled up on the top of Eliot’s blankets, while Eliot– kicked boys who _would_ suck his dick out of his room to just– be calm and present and there for Quentin, who at the time he’d thought _never would_ and he _didn’t care_. It’s not like he hasn’t seen the thin silver scars on the inside of Quentins arms, not like he hasn’t been quietly generating fear about this _–_

But it’s a far cry from _fear_ , from the casual mention of _‘at 16 I was one suicide attempt in_ ’ and just– coming up face to face with the reality of it. Here. _Now_. 

And some of that must show on his face, because Ted grimaces. There's a guilty twist to his mouth, a familiar expression that Eliot’s seen on his son, the resignation of not being able to carry something alone that he feels like he should be able to. So Eliot makes himself stop, reach out to grip Ted's elbow. Carefully, sincerely, he asks, "Are _you_ okay? Do you need anything?" 

"I'm fine, kid, just not sleeping well." And God, he wouldn't be, would he? ' _I'm not locking pills up yet_ ,' with that resignation, the guilt and frustration. "Also, you know, the nausea..."

"I did some research about that," Eliot says, distracted, because he's been meaning to talk to Q about it, except, well. He hadn't really talked to Q, has he? But it’s something useful he actually _can_ do, something he _can_ help fix. "According to the healer at Brakebills, you should be able to take a potion for that without it screwing up your treatment. I can make it for you. It’s not going to actually _cure anything–_ it’s just symptom management. But."

"I'll take what I can get," Ted says with a weak smile. Then, pointedly, "Q's upstairs. I was going to try to get him to eat dinner, if..."

"Yeah, I'll. If he wants to see me, I'll work on that."

"He wants to see you," Ted promises, squeezing Eliot's shoulder briefly. "I'm glad you're here."

And well. One out of two ain’t bad...

The door to Quentin's room is ajar, showing a peek of the dim interior of the room. It's late enough in the day that the sun has moved mostly to the other side of the house, leaving Quentin's room in a kind of twilight, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp. Eliot knocks, softly, just to– just to avoid startling him, really, as he pushes the door open. The air conditioner in the room is running, but even that seems inadequate to the pile of blankets on Quentin's bed, a half-burrowed nest where Quentin’s curled up, nose buried in a book. 

Quentin doesn't look up much at the knock, just mutters, "'m not hungry" into the spine of his book, dull green-grey of his first edition _Fillory and Further_. The first one, probably, if he’s looking for comfort, or _The Girl Who Told Time_ if he’s looking to escape. 

"That's fine, I'm not food," Eliot replies lightly, stepping into the room and closing the door most of the way behind him. The sound of his voice is enough to get Quentin to look up, finally, startled, propped up as he is in the little nest he's built for himself, hair a mess.

"El?"

"Hey," Eliot says gently, frozen as he is on the other side of the room, across a sea of detritus on the floor, scatterings of t-shirts and shoes and pants, the occasional book in the mix. Still fucking unsure of his welcome, if he’s inserting himself somewhere he doesn’t belong again, if Quentin’s going to want him to go. Well, if– he will go, if that’s what Quentin wants, but might as well explain himself first. "It's been a couple days since I've heard from you, and I was– worried, I guess. I tried to call ahead but I think your phone's dead."

"Oh," Quentin says, startled, glancing over to the bedside table where his phone's sitting face down. "Yeah, probably– I didn't mean to– Jesus, I'm. I don't even know.” He breathes out, hard, scrubbing his hands over his face before pushing to sit up more from his half-reclined slouch, blinking. It’s not unlike watching someone come up from being underwater. “Shit, I wasn’t– I wasn’t trying to ignore you, El. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Eliot says, heart in his throat– then– “Can I come in?”

“Yeah– _yeah_ , of course. Jesus, sorry about the mess.” Quentin’s looking around his room like he’s only now becoming aware of his surroundings, seeing them through Eliot’s eyes. It’s not, really, that bad– just clothes which haven’t quite managed to make it to the hamper, as Eliot steps into the room. It’s a small room, smaller than the guest room downstairs, and with the dim light of the lamp it has the distinct feeling of a hermit’s cave– sheltered, isolated, in need of airing out. Eliot almost wants to open a window, but then Quentin’s little nest of blankets probably _would_ become unbearably warm, with the AC flying out into the sky.

Q scoots over towards the wall as Eliot approaches, a clear invitation, but Eliot stops by the bed to take his shoes off because– he’s not an _animal,_ okay? Quentin’s smiling, a little, when Eliot looks back up, like he finds it endearing that Eliot won’t wear his shoes in bed. It is, predictably, very hot in the little nest, Quentin’s warm little body tucked up against him. Fuck, he has no choice but to be, really, as they try valiantly to squish all 8 miles of Eliot’s legs into the little twin bed.

“Hey, you,” Eliot says once he’s settled, feeling awkward and gangly and uncomfortably gigantic in a way he hasn’t since– fucking puberty, really, when his limbs hurt literally all the time and his mother couldn’t keep up with how quickly he was growing through his brothers’ hand-me-downs. 

“Hey,” Quentin sighs out, from inches way, now, and Eliot’s heart is still– fucking _stuck_ in his throat, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Quentin seems to have no such problems, reaching out to curl his hand into the front of Eliot’s shirt and lean in for– a soft kiss hello. “I really am sorry, I didn’t– notice, really. That it’d been a couple days. I– I opened your email and then I couldn’t think of what to say so I thought I’d get back to it later and–”

“It’s okay,” Eliot tells him, even though maybe it’s not, not because he’s letting Eliot down in some way, but because _he’s_ very clearly not okay. But very clearly still Eliot’s, as he snuggles down, half buried under a pile of blankets, nose against Eliot’s throat. Eliot makes himself relax, and trust, and wrap his arms around Quentin’s shoulders. “I was just worried, but– I might have overreacted. I can go if you want–”

Quentin shakes his head, nose brushing against Eliot’s throat with the movement. “I want to talk to you always,” he mutters, soft, a familiar turn of phrase that crawls into Eliot’s chest and takes up roots in his heart. “I just don’t know what to say.”

“Easier when we’re in the same place, huh?” Eliot says, feeling like he’s– stumbling around in the dark. But Quentin’s solid against him, under his hands, and Eliot can rest his head on Quentin’s hair, tangle their knees together, rub his back. He has to get half-under the pile of blankets to do it, but– he can deal with being a little over-hot, to get to be close as well.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, a weird tone to his voice that Eliot doesn’t really know what to do with. Then he sighs, sliding his arms around Eliot’s ribs. “I missed you.”

Swallowing thickly, Eliot presses a kiss into Quentin’s hair, a little stiff with grease. “Me, too.” Because fuck, _obviously_ , he showed up here uninvited didn’t he? At least he’s welcome. At least he seems to be _wanted_ , even if– even if Quentin’s hiding from the world under 6 different blankets, at least he’ll let Eliot under them with him. Absently, stroking his hand up and down the length of Quentin’s spine over his damp t-shirt, Eliot muses: "We should get you a gravity blanket."

"Huh?" Quentin mumbles, as Eliot runs his hand up to the back of Quentin's neck, petting, soothing.

"Weight blanket. Gives you the compression of a pile of blankets without trapping all this heat," Eliot explains, kissing softly at the top of Quentin's temple, his hair, touching him. Just touching, because fuck if it doesn’t soothe them both. 

"Sounds nice," Quentin admits, muffled, and he's relaxing in increments under the press of Eliot's hand, sighing a little when Eliot goes for broke and reaches for skin, sliding his palm up under Quentin's t-shirt to get at the tacky skin on his back. Quentin wriggles his way half on-top of Eliot, and he’s resting there, chin propped up on Eliot’s chest,eyes drifting shut longer with every blink, when there's a soft knock on the mostly-closed door.

"Yeah?" Q calls out, not– really making any move at all to get off of Eliot, and that's– still fucking shocking, somehow, the idea of this just being. _Fine._ Normal. Unremarkable.

Ted's head pops into the room, leaning against the door frame. "I was thinking about running into town for Chinese, if Eliot's gonna be here for dinner."

"Are you good to drive?" Quentin asks, head lifting halfway up, brows furrowing in concern in the way that makes Eliot want to pet his thumb over the crease between them, smooth out all his ruffled feathers.

"I'm fine, Curly Q," Ted sighs with exasperation. Eliot bites his lip, trying not to smile at the scowl on Quentin's face of the adorable childhood nickname. "You good with Chinese, Eliot?"

"I do love an eggroll," Eliot agrees, and Quentin– tucks his smile down, a little thing, against Eliot's chest. Then he sighs, and pushes himself to sit up, knees to his chest and feet tangled in Eliot's legs just to fit on the bed. Eliot just watches him, the swing of his hair, the way his t-shirts hangs off his shoulders, his sturdy hairy forearms– god, Eliot _missed him_ , he can finally feel it for real with worry receding in his chest.

"Sure, I guess, just like– the usual, I guess?" Then turning to Eliot, "Any special requests?"

"Besides the eggroll?" Eliot asks, grinning, just to watch Quentin roll his eyes and make a bitchy little face. "I'm good with whatever." Which was true, honestly. When it came down to it, Eliot grew up with meat-and-potatoes, corn-feed, Midwestern sensibilities when it came to food. He'd like to think he's cultivated better taste, since then, but the reality is he can and will eat just about anything. Then, to Ted, he says, "Maybe I can get some of that anti-nausea potion brewed up while you're gone."

Which is how he ends up standing at the stove in the Coldwater's kitchen, mixing up ginger and peppermint and tumeric and some sniff-test-passing yogurt, magic flowing from the tips of his finger while he mutters in Hindi.

"It kind of just smells like you're making curry," Quentin mutters from where he's perched on the counter top, holding Eliot's rings while his feet swinging against the cabinets, watching Eliot work. "Are you sure this is a real thing? It seems a little light on the whole– eye of newt, tongue of frog– thing."

"Because that seems like something that will make you _less_ likely to throw up?" Eliot asks, amused, shooting Quentin a little smile. "It's just like– normal stuff that makes your stomach settle, but amped up by the magic. That's why it's safe to take with the medication. The stuff that goes into my hangover cures is a lot weirder, don't you worry."

"Glad to hear it," Quentin says dryly. When Eliot looks over at him, he's looking down at Eliot's opal ring, sliding his thumb over the stone. His hair partially obscures his face, and for the first time in a long, long time, Eliot has no idea what's going on in his brain. Quentin, who wears his emotions on his face, is hardly the enigmatic type, nor is "quiet" a descriptor that would often be applied to him. And yet–

And yet it persists, while Eliot finishes the position and bottles them in the little vials he conjures, seals them with a spell. "He'll need to take one every couple of days," Eliot muses, lining up the little row of ten bottles on the counter. "Basically when the symptoms come back, according to Lipson. But this should last him a couple weeks, anyway."

"Thanks," Q says quietly, as Eliot moves to stand between his legs, hook his hair back behind his ear.

"'Course," Eliot murmurs, as Quentin nuzzles in close, asking for a kiss, quietly wordlessly, which Eliot gives. "Anything I can do for you, baby?"

Q just sighs. "No." Then, after a moment's pause– "Like– hug me? Maybe? Is that dumb?"

"Definitely not," Eliot promises, folding him in close. Warm little thing that he is, Quentin's nice to hold, comfortable in the span of Eliot's arms. He and Margo, they're both– the fucking best size for hugging, tiny dense little packages, with varying degrees of sharp edges, but– once you got past that– just perfect.

They've migrated to the couch by the time Ted gets back with Chinese, under a blanket despite the fact that it's fucking 90 degrees outside. Thank god for air conditioning. Eating in the living room is a well practiced routine in this house, and Eliot's pretty familiar with it at this point in the summer, but the rhythm of passing around take-out is new. Like so many other things, he slots into it easily, taking cartons of beef and veggies from Q, rice from Ted. Quentin passes him an eggroll with a weak eyebrow raise, and he smiles, heart in his chest. God, this man, honestly. What did Eliot ever do to deserve him?

"So, are you staying for a couple of days, Eliot?" Ted asks, breaking through the starry-eyed disaster that is Eliot's brain.

"I don't know," Eliot admits, glancing at Quentin, then over at his own satchel, dropped by the inside of the front door. "I brought some clothes and books for my dissertation, in case I am, but– I did just turn up out of the blue, I don't know if you guys have stuff going on."

"Not much going on for me," Ted says genially, gesturing at the empty vial of anti-nausea potion. "If this works, then my week just got a whole lot better."

"You have an appointment with your oncologist on Friday," Quentin says quietly, a frown on his face, and Ted blinks at him.

"Oh. Well– Well, I guess, maybe– That, if. If you say so."

Eliot's heart sinks, watching as Quentin puts down his plate, pushing it away with a frown. "I was thinking," he starts, and something in his tone of voice raises warning prickles across the back of Eliot's neck. "Maybe I should like– reach out to Brakebills and see if they can like– defer my enrollment for a semester, or if like– I don't know, if I can take a sabbatical, or. Something?"

The word _sabbatical_ rings in the air, as the pit of Eliot's stomach falls out from underneath him. "What?" He breathes, which is honestly the softer, lighter version of the ' _what did I do, what did I do wrong, why are you leaving me_ ' trying to crawl it's way up out of the suddenly reopened endless pit of need in his chest.

But chances are no one even heard him, over Ted's much louder, much more annoyed, "The _hell_ you are, Quentin."

"Dad, if you can't even get to your doctor's appointments–"

"I haven't missed an appointment yet, and that's not just because you're here. We set up notifications in my phone to remind me a bunch of times that stuff's coming up. Buddy, you _can't stay here_ like this." Ted's frown is so like Quentin's and they're both so stubborn, Eliot can already see them backing up against opposite walls, practically hissing.

"He's right," Eliot says softly, burying his own screaming, whining, terrible monster deep in his chest to look at Q full in the face. "Q, baby, you can't shut yourself away here. It's only going to get harder, and you can't be alone–"

"So Dad has to be alone instead?" Quentin asks, voice high, and fuck– his eyes are welling up, Eliot's entire chest hurts. "How can I– how am I supposed to go to school and focus and learn when I _know_ this is happening–"

"The distraction will help," Ted says, sincerely, and they both look over at him instinctively. "I know that it feels like– life can't just keep going the way it's supposed to, Q, I remember how it was when my dad died–"

"You're not dead yet!" Quentin shouts, tears spilling over, and Eliot can't help but reach out for him, relieved when Quentin lets Eliot take his hand.

"You're right, buddy, I'm not. But I'm going to be, and I need you to have something else keeping you here after I'm gone." Eliot swallows, a hot tightness behind his eyes, because _god, fuck, there's so many things I still need him for._ "I don’t want you to put your life on hold forever. I didn’t even want you to put your life on hold for the summer.”

“I need to be able to _be here_ –”

“Q,” Eliot says, gently, squeezing his hand until Quentin looks at him. Swallowing, Eliot tries to remember: be the person you want to be for him. Be someone he can rely on. “You can still be here for the important things. Sure magic can’t cure cancer but it can fix a lot of problems, darling. You’re worried about not being able to get here for appointments? I can set up a portal in your closet at school, like we have in Margo’s? Open the door right into your bedroom, you can be here right away.”

“I thought that was illegal?” Quentin asks, frowning, and Eliot shakes his head.

“Opening portals randomly is _dangerous_ , because you can’t really be sure what’s happening on the other side. But with like, a controlled set of circumstances, it’s fine. With Margo on one side and me on the other, we can set up a permanent connection, easy.” Quentin’s fingers are tense under his, and that itching, whining fear wins out, finally, spilling some of that neediness out into the room. “Brakebills... isn’t exactly like other schools, Q. They might give you a semester, _maybe_ , but if it looks like you’re not coming back– They’ll take your memories. They’ll take everything, not just magic, but– Margo and everyone and _me_. And– I think you’re better off with us to help you deal with things.”

“I didn’t think about that,” Quentin admits, which, _why_ , _why not, dumbass_ , _you’ve gone through being nearly kicked out before._ Eliot takes a deep breath, and makes himself relax, makes himself rub his hand soothingly against Quentin’s rather than clutching at him, desperate. “But that’ll happen if I fail out, too.”

“You won’t fail out,” Eliot says, fervently. “Me, Margo, Alice– fuck, even Julia, she can’t be a complete lost cause– we’re not going to let you. _I_ will personally steal your exam answers–”

“ _Well_ ,” Ted cuts in, parental voice of reason, and Quentin laughs, blinking out another wave of tears. 

“You’re not alone,” Eliot repeats, emphatically, meaning– _you don’t have to do it alone_ , but also– _you’re better when you’re with us_. Meaning, _don't you know I need you? I need you just– next to me, in my life._ His own eyes are well up, refracting the light in the room. _Don’t go where I can’t help you_ , fuck, Jesus Christ.

“Okay,” Quentin agrees, breathing out, and Eliot’s almost surprised, that he gave ground that easily. He'd half expected to fight the stubbornness out of him over the course of fucking– _days_. But Q’s collapsing like the wind’s gone out of his sales, and maybe he just– Maybe he just needed to be talked out of it. To Eliot he says: “I’m sorry you have to deal with this–” 

“Don’t be,” Eliot says, sincerely, wet eyes spilling over. “Q– all of this... predates everything with us. Except maybe being your friend, and honestly that’s the best thing I’ve done since the day I met Margo. I knew what I was getting into. I’m here on purpose, Q. I’m– this is my choice.”

“Okay,” Quentin agrees again, giving his dad a sheepish look.

“Oh, kiss your boyfriend, I swear I won’t pass out,” Ted sighs, and Quentin snorts. But does, in fact, lean in for a kiss, which Eliot gives, short and sweet. 

“God,” he breathes out, blinking up at the ceiling once Q backs away. “Is my eyeliner smudged?”

“Yes,” Quentin confirms, and when Eliot looks down at him, he gives a sad little smile.

“Fix it for me?” Eliot asks, heart finally settling back into his chest as Quentin skims his sleeve of his hoodie down over his hand, reaching up to wipe gently at Eliot’s face. Eliot just looks at him, drinking in his face, so dear and so unknowingly almost lost. Soft, under his breath, he says, “Thanks, baby.” Quentin doesn't quite smile in response, but it's a near thing

Sleep eludes Eliot, that night. 

Quentin passes out, _hard_ , and fairly early, tucked into the curve of Eliot’s body in the guest room, deep sleep that settles his features and evens his breathing, makes him warm and clingy. Eliot lays in bed, willing sleep to come, and unable to stop the rising tide of messy, panicky emotion jangling around in his chest. It’s supposed to be– sleeping next to Quentin is supposed to be _easier_ , except now all he can think of is _losing it_. How fucking miserably he’d be, without Quentin, _truly_ without him. Even in all his self destructive fear spirals, when he’d imagined– fucking this up so badly that Quentin would eventually break up with him, they were always– they were always going to be _friends_ , right? Sure, it'd be weird and awkward for a little while, but they'd still be– in each other's lives. That was the forgone conclusion. If Quentin can want to be friends with _Alice_ , then of course Eliot wouldn’t– 

Of course the most important bit, the _Q next to me in my life_ bit, that was never in jeopardy. 

Except, suddenly, maybe it was.

When he’d– god, months ago, almost a year, when he’d promised to find Quentin if the school took his memories, it’d been half a joke but now. Fuck, now– Now he can’t– 

When did he get to the point where he couldn’t imagine life without Q? _I did this on purpose_ , he reminds himself and he meant it, he _means_ it, but– suddenly he’s fucking terrified of the reality of it. Eliot never meant to need anyone. Fuck, he'd decided after fucking Alexi, five fucking years ago, he wasn't– wasn't going give away pieces of himself ever again. But he was lying to himself, wasn't he, if he pretended Margo didn't have some of his pieces, that Quentin hadn't already had some of them long before Eliot kissed him, sloppy drunk and miserable. 

Restless, he shifts a little, and Quentin makes an unhappy sound in his sleep. After shushing him on instinct, Eliot admits defeat and works his way out from underneath Quentin, petting him until he settles and then slipping out of the bed.

He’s sitting on the porch swing out back of the house, however much later, when the door to the kitchen opens. He looks up, expecting Quentin, and is surprised to find himself looking up at Ted, holding two cups of tea. He offers one, wordlessly, and Eliot takes it, of course he does, watching as Ted settles to sit out with him, not saying anything.

So Eliot doesn’t either, just looks back out over the yard where he’d cooked burgers and met Ted’s friends, been more thoroughly welcomed into suburban life than he’d ever thought possible. More than he’d ever thought he’d want. 

“You know,” Ted says eventually into the stillness of the night, “I used to sit out here with Q like this, when he was in high school. I swear he spent two years not being able to sleep at night, no wonder he was so tired all the time.”

“Yeah, I–” Eliot swallows, looking down into the mug of tea. Probably Lipton, and made too weak. He sips it anyway. “I’ve done that, too. There’s this little reading nook, in the Cottage on our campus. He used to hide in there, first semester when he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes I’d keep him company.” Usually a couple drinks in, but who’s counting, really, if he could curl up in the comfortable little space and listen to Quentin read aloud. “Most of the second semester he had a girlfriend, though, so– fewer late night wanderings then.”

“Never heard about the girlfriend,” Ted muses, rocking the porch swing with his heels. “Heard about you, though. When he told me about your school, about magic, about all of it. Like somehow you were part of the magic to begin with.”

Eliot feels– tight, constricted, hot behind the eyes. “I was the first person he met there, that’s all.”

“I really don’t think that’s it, kid,” Ted says, kindly. God, no wonder Quentin is– the way he is, all open beating heart, when this was how he grew up. "So, are you awake for the same reason I am?" 

How do you– how the fuck do you break down an entire lifetime of messy, fucked up emotions and the way they chew you up inside? Even to someone who would probably care enough to try and understand, who’s partially responsible for the existence of your favorite human? He could blow it off, say any number of half-assed excuses, but– who the fuck else is he gonna talk about this with? Margo? She wouldn't get it. Quentin? Well, yes, he probably should, but that's harder to face. 

"This summer," he starts, carefully, thinking through the words as he says them, "has been unlike any summer of my life. It's been– hard, and good, and a whirlwind, and lasted forever. And I've been trying to figure out how to... be, for Quentin, what I want to be for him. But I'm not sure what that means, or how to do it, because what I want for him is– for him not to feel alone. And I think maybe for the first time in my life, _I_ don't want to feel alone, either. Being alone feels less like being safe than it used to. And that's been. Hard to wrap my brain around."

Ted hums a little, looking out over the backyard, and he’s got that no-eye-contact thing down, doesn’t he? Echoes of Q, everywhere, even in this conversation. “I don’t think human beings are really meant to be alone. Not really.”

Which, god, Eliot can’t help but think about Ted knocking around this house by himself for the last 4 years and change. Thinking he’d have time to find someone to share it with, maybe, and then realizing, abruptly, that he didn’t. It makes Eliot’s eyes feel– hot and sore and– he blinks, and blinks, and blinks until the wetness is gone. “I used to think I didn’t need anyone to become who I was supposed to be,” he tells his tea cup. And you know, if Ted just happens to hear it, well– “Turns out I was wrong.”

“Hmm. I think figuring that out is a good use of a summer,” Ted says mildly, rocking, rocking, rocking the bench, just a little. 

With a guilty twist, Eliot gives voice to the real thought that's been keeping him up all night. "Am I being selfish telling him not to stay?" he asks, and he can't look at Ted when he asks it, just stares down into his tea. "Am I just telling him to come back because it’s the right thing for him or because I feel like I need him?" 

"It can be both things," Ted says, and when Eliot looks over at him, startled, he shrugs. "Being a little selfish isn't bad, kid. There's nothing wrong with wanting to have your boyfriend around. But no– I know that we both know how bad it would be for him to just hang around here watching me get worse. At least at school he's got things to take his mind off it, stuff to learn, _magic_ , and things to get out of bed for. You're smart enough to see how things are getting bad for him, this summer."

Eliot nods, sipping his tea. It could benefit from a little whiskey, honestly, but he left his flask inside, in the satchel next to the bed. He makes himself say, "It's going to be bad for him either way," honest, aching, "but at least at Brakebills, I can– I can help. And I meant it, about coming out for like, doctor's appointments and stuff, I'll set up the portal, I'll help him get here and get home, I’ll drive places– I just can't _help him_ if he's on the other side of the state."

"You’re good at that,” Ted says shrewdly, with that specific frankness Eliot's coming to expect from him. “Helping him cope. I’ve noticed before, you’re good at it.”

“It’s not that hard,” Eliot starts awkwardly, but Ted shakes his head.

“It is. I spent 15 years trying to learn how to do it, and mostly failing.”

“I–” _I’m scared all the time of doing it wrong, of fucking it up_ , no, get it together, Waugh,“– don’t mind the effort, I guess. Even when he’s kind of... prickly.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Ted says lightly, looking back out at the yard, wry. “That was the thing I worried about first, you know, when they told me I had this.” He gestures to his head, an all encompassing move signifying the tumor that was starting to steal his memory.

“Q being a bitch?” Eliot quips, lightly, a risk. One he wouldn’t take if he didn’t feel like he was starting to know Ted, know how he’d react to things. 

It makes the other man laugh, which had been Eliot’s aim, and he unwinds a little, leaning back into the porch swing. “No, him being able to handle himself without support. Besides Julia, he’s never been very good at making friends.”

“He’s got friends, in his cohort,” He promises, because, well. Kady and Penny and even Alice would help Quentin out of a tight spot with only mild complaining. “He’s got my best friend, too. And once she gets her claws in, she never lets go.”

“Good, that’s good. I’m glad to hear that. I’m not trying to put any pressure on you, Eliot,” he says, like an afterthought. “I’m not going to be that parent who makes you promise to look after my kid when you’ve been together less time than I’ve been sick. It’s just– good to see that he can have that, you know?”

Eliot swallows, looking back up out at the yard so he can– maybe figure out how the fuck to say this. “He’s my best friend,” Eliot says carefully, skating around the thoughts he’d been racing through earlier. “And don’t tell Margo this, or she’ll hex my razors, but– he is. I don’t see that changing, really, even if–” _even if I really fuck this up._ He shrugs a little when Ted looks back at him. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I know that I care about him.”

“That’s not nothing, Eliot,” Ted says seriously. Then he sighs dramatically, reaching out to clap a very dad-like hand on Eliot’s shoulders. “We should both try to get some sleep, kid. Even if it feels kinda pointless.”

Eliot lets out a breathless laugh, looking up at the sky. Well, he could probably get a couple hours, if he somehow managed to actually fall asleep. “I’ll be right in,” he promises, watching Ted make his way back into the house.

He does mean to go right to sleep, except– except he finds himself standing in the doorway to the guest room, watching Quentin. His breathe is slow and deep with sleep, his face peaceful and young-looking, hand thrown out into the empty space left by Eliot’s body, and– Eliot’s heart hurts, watching him. _Please don’t leave me, not for real_ , he thinks, watching the rise and fall of Quentin’s chest, and then– shakes his head. Gets back into bed, to snuggle in close in the dark.

He’s still groggy, the next day, and it makes him grouchy.

“I hate telekinesis,” Eliot says, grumpy, sitting with Quentin on the floor of the living room. In some kind of desperate bid to remind Q how cool magic was and how much he wants to study it, Eliot had pulled him to look through the books he’d taken out of the library, acutely aware that he suddenly had about a week and a half before he had to present a dissertation topic. This, of course, was backfiring _spectacularly_ , because he still had _no fucking ideas_. “I hate that I'm supposed to write a 20 page paper on this. Magic-grabby-pushy-go. Not paper worthy.”

“I have an idea. Come here,” Quentin says, scootching forward until he’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, like he’s gonna fucking– start meditating in the middle of his dad’s living room in New Jersey. Given that _Quentin_ and _sitting_ aren’t usually concepts that apply to each other, Eliot’s intrigued despite himself.

“Is this some kind of tantric sex thing?” Eliot asks, folding down in front of him so they’re knee to knee. Quentin’s knee caps are warm and solid, and not a part of the body Eliot ever thought he’d feel any particular affection for. And yet.

“No, I need to be significantly more drunk before I have sex in the living room,” Quentin says matter-of-factly, fishing around in Eliot’s bag to pull out– a pen?

“So you’re saying it’s a possibility,” Eliot returns, because it’s what they’re both expecting him to do. 

Quentin doesn’t bother to spike back, just holds up the pen instead. “Can you make this float?”

“Of course I can.”

“So. Make it float.”

Reaching for telekinesis is easy. Too easy, almost, like– an exhale. Like he was expending more energy _not_ to let magic flow out of him and grasp the shiny metal casing of Eliot’s very best pen than he’s using to cast. Q’s hand falls away, and the pen is left hovering in the air between them. Eliot sends it revolving slowly, just for some visual interest, a little dramatic flare, and focuses on Q behind it. “It’s floating.”

“Yeah, so, what does it feel like?” Quentin asks, all earnest, pretty brown eyes wide and excited, like he always gets with magic.

“It feels like a pen,” Eliot returns, because, well. It does. 

“Not the object, dickhead, the spell,” Quentin sighs, and Eliot rolls his eyes.

But he closes them, to focus on what Q’s asking. Reaching out with whatever sense connects magic to magician, he lets his awareness expand outwards. He can feel the texture of the metal, different than he would feel it with his fingertips. The smoothness registers in a different way, not so much a lack of friction or texture to grip on to, but more like– the smoothness of water passing over a stone. Magic wraps easily around the barrel of the pen, without much resistance– but there is texture. Faint rings, circles in the metal. If he tries, he can feel them, pull down into the microscopic markings left behind by the smoothing and polishing of the casing. 

“I can feel textures too small to see,” he says absently, which is– interesting. He’s never really noticed that before. He’s never really tried to focus telekinesis on this level before. “There’s grooves in the metal. I can feel the pattern of them.”

“How much further down can you push?” Quentin’s voice asks, from far away, and Eliot furrows his brow, concentrating. If he tries, really tries, he can feel– the tension that makes metal _metal_. The binding of the molecules. If he pushed– further– 

Opening his eyes, he lets the pen fall to the ground between their bodies. 

“What happened?” Quentin asks, confusion writing across his face.

Eliot looks away. “I don’t think I should push further right now.”

“What? Why? Come on, it looked like you were getting somewhere–”

“I don’t want to mess around the molecular matter and accidentally set off a nuclear bomb in your dad’s house, Q!” Eliot snaps, flexing his hands, on reflex, seeing– the spray of red blood on a yellow school bus, gouges of physical force ripping through dirt, the shudder of glass ready to break under his hands. “Do you know what Mayakovsky said about me, at Brakebills South?”

“That he hates you and probably something else vaguely homophobic?” Quentin guess, voice so dry it’s nearing monotone.

“He said I was a ‘gifted telekinetic’ but that I lacked the will power to control it,” Eliot recites, balling his hands into fists before they can start shaking. “‘Gifted.’ Telekinesis isn’t a gift. It’s this– raw, unfettered _thing_ inside of me, that _hurts people_. It’s constantly trying to break out and rip everything apart. I can’t– trust myself to control it. I barely got out of Mike’s apartment this spring before it burst out of me, and I _could have killed him_ with it.” 

“You didn’t,” Quentin points out, quiet. When Eliot looks back at him, there’s a furrow in his brow, but he’s not looking at Eliot like he’s afraid. Instead, he reaches out, hand falling on top of Eliot’s. Eliot’s knuckles ache from how tightly his fist is squeezed, but he’s not even aware of it until Q’s touching him. “It’s not inherently violent, Eliot. You just keep being– _hurt_ by people. It’s not really surprising that you developed a kind of magic that can help you defend yourself. But its not _only_ that. I mean– you’re not a battle mage.”

Eliot sighs, forcing his hands to relax. “No– I’m a party trick until I’m ripping you limb from limb. How do I write a thesis about that?”

“Just because you don’t want to get into molecular magic here doesn’t make it a dead end,” Quentin points out, thumb brushing softly against the back of Eliot’s hand. “Sunderland can help you do it safely, probably, once we’re back in class. You could do some research, in the meantime, see what kind of study exists in that area?”

“Oh, boy,” Eliot sighs, feeling a headache threatening already. “Reading.”

Quentin snorts, shaking Eliot’s hand in his. “Hey, at least you’ve got a discipline, you’re not just a ‘nothing-mancer.’ We don’t even know for sure I’m a physical kid.”

Eliot frowns, looking at him. Quentin’s looking down at the fabric of his jeans, picking at them a little. He somehow missed that this was even a thing that _bothered_ Quentin, when for Eliot it was so clear. “You’re a physical kid, Q.”

“You can’t just _will_ that into being because you want to have easy access to my bedroom,” Quentin points out, eye rolling little brat that he is.

“Well, you’re not a psychic,” Eliot says, reasonably, which they both seem to be able to agree upon. “You’re not a naturalist, because no offense Q but you literally can’t tell witch hazel from poison ivy. I don’t think you’re an illusionist, either, seeing how much trouble you have with wards. And you’re smart, but you’re not–”

“Julia?” Q offers, dully.

“I was going to say incomprehensibly fixated on the minutiae of spell work, but what have you. So I don’t think you’re Knowledge either.”

“Maybe I am just– so mediocre it doesn’t matter,” Quentin sighs, dropping Eliot’s hands to draw his knees up to his chest, hug his arms around them in classic Quentin defensive posture. Eliot can’t help but wonder if this, this anxiety, was a contributing factor to his whole– _sabbatical_ plan. 

“I don’t buy that,” Eliot says softly, because he’s seen Quentin wipe out a Welters stadium all on his own, when he wasn’t so lost in the fear that he wouldn’t be able to do it. “Something’s gotta feel easier for you than other things.” 

“I dunno,” Q half shrugs, chin resting on his knees. “I think– sometimes, I can– translocate objects without meaning to?”

“Like with your muggle magic tricks?” Quentin nods mutely, hair falling into his face. Eliot smiles a little to himself, reaching out to hook it back behind his ear without thinking. “Well, that’s physical magic, for sure.”

“Also the– mendings and stuff, those repair spells? Or the um– binding and fusion spells? Those felt easier. Mending felt– easy.”

“All physical magic,” Eliot points out leaning in close, watching Quentin watch him as a little smile grows in the corner of Quentin’s mouth. “Physical kid.”

“I guess,” Quentin agrees, fingers reaching forward to hook in the front of Eliot’s tie, pull him forward until he’s balancing on his knees, against Q’s shins. His face tips up, eyes sparkling, tilting towards Eliot like an ask, like a dare or a promise.

Quentin’s mouth is soft, when Eliot kisses him. Warm, and a little wet with breath and speech, and when Eliot breaks the kiss, their lips stick just a little, lingering. Quentin hums, and tilts up again, and that fervent _hungry_ affection that’s so terrifying claws at Eliot’s stomach because this _man,_ honestly. This sweet boy, this kind wonderful man–

Curling a hand around the back of Q’s neck, Eliot sinks into the kiss, the feeling of it, Quentin’s breath against his cheek as he exhales through his nose, the scratch of his stubble. Q opens his mouth to breathe in, and Eliot lets him then chases the air, wonderful, as he catches Quentin’s top lip between his own and–

The door opens with a rattle, and Eliot springs back automatically, but he can’t get far. Quentin’s still holding his tie, fingers curled around the material. He’s still half-curled over Q, their faces inches apart as Ted walks into the house, keys in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. “Heya, kids,” Ted says breezily, hanging his keys up on the hook by the door. Quentin finally lets go of Eliot’s tie, lets him sink back until they’re sitting side by side instead of– fucking half-straddling him. 

“Hey, Dad,” Quentin says easily, no hint of embarrassment in him, while Eliot feels like his heart is about to explode. “How’s Sidney?”

“Still convinced he’s going to be able to sell that giant lawn gnome, but you know. 25 years isn’t enough proof or anything,” Ted says, like– that’s a totally reasonable conversation topic, when you walk in on your grown-up son and his boyfriend kissing on your living room floor. “I got sandwiches from the deli on Bloomfield Ave on the way home, so don’t worry about lunch. Got you that one with Prosciutto, Eliot.”

“Sounds good,” Eliot squeaks out, several octaves higher than his normal speaking voice, which of course makes Quentin laugh at him. 

“We’re just gonna finish up here,” Quentin says, leaning into Eliot’s side, a warm heavy weight. “Eliot’s finally working on his thesis.”

“That’s what you kids call it these days?” Ted calls back from the kitchen, and that’s enough at least to make Quentin splutter and blush.

“Your fault,” Eliot hisses, but presses a quick, sucking kiss to Quentin’s mouth away.

“Yeah, I’m a dick,” Quentin agrees, lightly sarcastic, as he reaches for Eliot’s notebook, flinging it at him. “I’m serious about the molecular magic thing, write that down and talk to Sunderland about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, fine,” Eliot agrees, reluctantly. 

Picking up the discarded pen, Eliot notes out the feelings and possibilities he’d felt in the magic as Quentin stands, stretching and padding off towards the kitchen. Eliot can just hear him talking to his father, the low rumble of their voices in the background, the clunk of plates and glasses being set down on the wooden table. There’s a rhythm to them, to Ted and Q, moving around this house together like they have for the past 17 years. 

Ignoring the weird ache in his chest, Eliot finishes his notes quickly so he can go join them. 

____

"Why didn't we do this at the beginning of the summer?" Quentin asks from his perch on the bed, watching Eliot scatter spell components in a semi-circle around his closet door.

The morning had been spent in a kind of chaotic scramble, searching all over Montclair for the right kind of unscented Epsom Salts, and 6oz of red clay, and the maple leaves, and live bamboo. It had been– kind of weirdly fun, all told, the three of them going on a very mundane quest, all of them– giggling about it, strategizing, guessing. Watching Eliot stroll into a local pottery shop and smile his way into some red clay purely by the force of his charisma alone was objectively hilarious, and answered a lot of questions about how he and Margo got away with half the shit they did. 

It’s late afternoon now, and Ted's taking a nap, sleeping off the excitement of the morning, while Eliot prepares the spell for the portal and Quentin watches, with a kind of prickling excitement that always comes with magic. "Somehow a booty-call portal seems more invasive than a medically necessitated access portal," Eliot points out, eyes twinkling. "This isn't going to be like the Brakebills portal, anyway, always open. That would take a massive amount of energy, and probably a bunch of rare components that we can't get easily or without people asking a lot of questions. Plus, then you wouldn't actually have a closet anymore. We're more like... casting an anchor? So when you want to use it, you can cast an abbreviated version of the portal spell with verbal and somatic components only."

"Mmm, yeah, baby, talk dirty to me," Quentin teases, carefully protecting the little bubble of delight in his chest, a little circle of technicolor amongst the gray, be it magic, or Eliot, he doesn’t know. Sometimes they kind of feel like the same thing, intrinsically tied together.

Eliot's smile is delighted and surprised, and he _winks_ , which shouldn't– Quentin hides his smile in his knees, feeling– the soap bubble shell around that delight grow a little thicker. "I'll talk about circumstantial translocation to you anytime, Cutie Q," Eliot drawls back, as he dips his fingers into the slurry of clay, tracing sigils on the door.

"Is that why you need the clay? For like– permanence?" Quentin wonders allowed, and Eliot hums in agreement.

"Yeah, it's the foundation of the spell. If we were making a portal that's intended to stay open all the time, I'm pretty sure we'd have to carve into the wood and fill it with porcelain or inlay stone?" Eliot shrugs a little. "I don't really remember, I looked into it two years ago, basically only long enough to find this version of the spell, and realize the more complex one would probably make me niffin out."

"Maybe two years ago," Quentin says, half an agreement, because– he can _feel_ it, swelling around them, the slow build of Eliot's power as he moves through the ritual of the spell. He's not even casting yet, but the ambient magic in the air is already drawing towards him like iron filings to a magnet. Eliot, who inhabits magic, breathes it, _exudes_ it, who might struggle to push through a reading assignment but has never, _ever_ struggled to access the magic, to bend it to his will. Magic flowing through Eliot looks like dancing, it looks like _sex_ , like anything Eliot's ever asked his body to do is undeniably easy and unquestionably skilled.

The components of the spell are all laid by the time the clock counts down to 3 o'clock. As soon as the hour strikes, Eliot starts casting, the swell of magic in the room responding to his movements. Quentin can feel it, the hook of his magic and the anchor of Margo's on the other side, building a bridge across space as they reach for each other. It sparks up Quentin's back like electricity, makes the air taste sharp like– ceder and burned cloves. It sends his heart racing in his chest, and he sits forward, intrigued and– _excited_ , watching as the spell burns through Eliot's fingertips, lighting up the sigils on the door as the clay glows bright and hardens, then begins to flake away. The salts kick up into a whirlwind, contained chaos in the semi-circle around the door, as the bamboo plant begins to whither and die.

For all the slow build of the spell, it ends abruptly, all the leaves and salts falling to the ground with a sudden release. "Did it work?" Quentin asks, frowning, and Eliot grins back at him.

"Let's find out." He holds out his hand, and Quentin climbs off the bed to take it, letting Eliot pull him forward until they're in each other's space. Then Eliot's moving to stand behind him, looping his arms around Quentin's and holding his hands up in a textbook perfect Popper 34. "C'mon, I'll show you the tuts to activate it."

"Hm, this is clearly the most practical way to do that," Quentin murmurs back, twisting his neck until he's looking at the edge of Eliot's smile over his shoulder. But he holds his hands up obediently, following Eliot's hands through Popper 34 to Livingston 24 to Popper 26 and then back to 34.

"Good," Eliot murmurs, breath hot and tickling at Quentin's ear. He shivers, a little, instinctive, the way he always fucking– remembers he has a body and that body _wants things_ , whenever he gets close to Eliot. "Now repeat 'open' in Japanese and Greek."

Quentin does, and this time he can feel the hook of magic, catching somewhere in the door as it passes through him. Light sparks behind it, and Eliot hums, pressing a kiss to Quentin's temple before drawing away. "If you dump me in the middle of a volcano I'm going to haunt you," Quentin warns him, glaring a little.

Eliot snorts. "I'm going with you," he points out, tangling his fingers together. "We will die this fiery death together."

"Oh, good," Quentin shoots back, dryly, but he steps forward nevertheless, pulling the door open and stepping through into–

–his new room at Brakebills, full of boxes and a grinning Margo, sitting with the legs crossed on the edge of the bed. "Hello boys," she coos as Eliot steps around Quentin to go to her, dropping a brief kiss softly on her mouth.

"Always lovely to cast with you, Bambi," he murmurs, grinning down at her, before looking around the room. "What's with the boxes."

"I broke Q's stuff out of storage," she says with a shrug. "It was an interesting way to pass the morning. I figured we didn't want to run the risk of someone else claiming the room first and then awkwardly having to dispel the portal in their closet."

"Smart," Quentin agrees, stepping towards Margo as Eliot turns away from her, disappearing into the cottage to go collect a couple more changes of clothes and some other things. "Thanks for helping with this. I think– sorry, I think I might end up stealing him for a little while longer."

"Mhm, about that," Margo agrees briskly, pushing up off the bed and stepping towards Quentin. He watches her come, wary, but– _nowhere near wary enough_ , apparently, as she reaches out and pinches his nipple, _hard_. "What did I tell you about not trying to do shit on your own?"

"I don't remember being threatened with a nipple piercing, Jesus!" he protests, backing away with his arms crossed over his chest. _Mother bitch, that hurt._

"You're fine," Margo says, rolling her eyes, and then she– pushes in to hug him. Quentin freezes, for a minute, because he's not– entirely sure if he's ever been hugged by Margo before, or hugged like this, anyway, the way she hugs Eliot. Hesitantly, he wraps his arms around her shoulders, lets her squeeze him tight until she pulls back. "Now, I say again: what did I tell you about trying to disappear with your shit?"

"That I'm not allowed to." She hums, clearly waiting for more, he huffs out. "Jesus, _okay Mom_."

"Honey babycakes, me being your Mama is not something you're ready for," Margo coos, reaching up to pat his cheek, leaving him feeling like he missed a step going downstairs. "Of course Eliot's gonna stay with you for a while, I had him for the last two weeks. Plus, it’s not like we're _splitting custody,_ Eliot is fully capable of deciding where he's needed more and being there. And, you know– now we have this hand dandy portal, I can have lunch with him whenever I want."

"Are you– do you want to come back with us?" Quentin offers, which is both– a weirdly terrifying and exciting thought. He literally cannot picture Margo and his dad existing in the same room. They feel like– characters from different books, like smashing them together would be– disconcerting, but also maybe a little intriguing.

"I'm not wearing the right shoes for New Jersey," Margo says, dismissive, which, okay, sure, message received. Gentler, she says, "I'll go back with you sometime, Q, when there's practical things I can help with. But like– feelings stuff, that's Eliot's bag, not mine. You need help with logistical stuff, I'm there right away. Okay?"

"Okay," he agrees, letting her loop her arm around his waist as they look around the room.

"You're gonna be a good neighbor," she says thoughtfully.

"Meaning I'm never going to be in here?"

"Mhm, perfect," she grins back, catlike, and Quentin snorts. "You might be, depending on how dissertation research goes for El. I understand that you're _very_ distracting."

"Eliot's perfectly capable of distracting himself, when he doesn't want to do something," Quentin points out, and he wonders, suddenly if Eliot's gotten a chance to talk with her about the molecular telekinesis yet. He wants to ask, wants to hold it up like– _look, I helped, I'm good for him, you're doing the right thing trusting me with him_ but– it's not his to tell.

They drift into Margo's room while they wait for Eliot, since it's actually a functional space rather than just a bare mattress and a pile of boxes. Hesitantly, Quentin admits to her his worry about being too distracted by things with his dad to stay on top of his coursework, and well– that's more of a logistical issue, than an emotional one. Maybe she can help. 

"Well, required courses are easy to pull you through," she says matter-of-factly. "PA and circumstantial astronomy and all those, El and I both have notes–"

"Eliot burned all his notes."

"– I have notes and your boyfriend's a dumbass, but somehow a really gifted magician despite having 3 brain cells," Margo grumbles. "Plus, the rest of your little clique is in those with you. I know things are weird with Quinn, since you left her to ride a disco stick."

"Jesus, Margo," Quentin groans, dropping his face into the comforter so maybe she won't see that his cheeks are on fire. "It really was a mutual break-up. It wasn't about Eliot."

"Sure." Margo shrugs, unconvinced or uncaring, and then continues on. "So it's really the electives that you've gotta worry about. What are you taking?"

"Um– Arabic, Intro to Healing and Horomancy."

Margo wrinkles her nose. "Well I failed Arabic, please tell me you don't have Cushman, he's a fucking _bor_ e. But Eliot can help you with that one, he aced it. I've got you for Horomancy. Healing might be an issue." She taps her fingers on her lip thoughtfully. "How do we feel about Lipson, is she queer? I could fall on that sword for you."

"Please don't," Quentin groans, and Margo grins, just as Eliot walks into the room with his usual fanfare.

"What did you do to Q?" He gasps at Margo, askance.

"Our secret," she trills back, shooting Quentin a wink.

That night, aftering bidding goodbye to Margo and some pizza with Ted, Quentin and Eliot pile up into the guest room with a post-dinner bowl of popcorn and Quentin’s collection of Studio Ghibli movies.

"I can't believe you've never seen any of these," Quentin grumbles as they settle into a little cocoon of blankets on the big bed, his laptop propped up in front of them. Eliot’s all tucked up against his chest, half laying down to fit, but it’s nice. It’s nice to get to hold him, to be able to reach up and slide his fingers into Eliot’s curls where Eliot’s head rests on his shoulder. 

"Can't you though?" Eliot returns, skeptical, and Quentin huffs out a laugh on a quiet breath. "Honestly I'm a little surprised you have. I shouldn't be, but I didn't get the sense that anime was your kind of nerdiness."

"This isn't anime," Quentin objects, and then, because well– "I mean, it kind of is. It's Japanese animation. But they're just really lovely movies and the stories are all– like– the fantastical existing next to the 'real' world. That's very me."

"Hmm," Eliot agrees, nuzzling in against Quentin's jaw as the loading screen for Spirited Away starts up. "So is this guy a Magician? The animator?"

"I–" Quentin starts, and then pauses, thoughtful. "I don't know. Maybe? Some of it seems like it could– fit, maybe? We'll watch Totoro, after this, that's the one that seems like it's maybe the most– magically plausible."

"That your favorite?"

"No," Quentin says, but his normal protest that Princess Mononoke is his favorite dies on his tongue, because– it's not like Eliot would even _know_ which ones are popular, which ones were made first, which are regarded as the best. "I mean, I really like it? I really like all of them. But the one I watched the most was _Howl's Moving Castle_ and this one. That one's kind of a love story, about a girl who falls in love with this like– tall, mysterious, handsome wizard–"

"Yeah?" Eliot asks, evident amusement and delight in his voice, ' _oof_ 'ing when Quentin jabs him in the ribs.

"Fuck off," Quentin shoots back, and settles in to enjoy the movie.

Or at least Quentin is. It takes about 15 minutes until Eliot’s wriggled around enough in Quentin’s arm to nose against his cheek, lips trailing along the edge of Quentin’s jaw and up to the corner of his mouth. 

“What are you doing?” Quentin whispers back, though he doesn’t– _pull away_ , god, Eliot’s smells so good, and his 5 o’clock shadow scrapes against Quentin’s cheek in a way that’s very– interesting.

“You’re all dimply,” Eliot mutters back, kissing at, yeah, Quentin’s fucking dimples, Jesus Christ. “It’s cute.”

There are about a dozen things Quentin could do in response to that, and at least 10 of them would result in them very much not watching any movies tonight. Which– would be _fun_ , probably, but– now that it’s playing, Quentin actually really wants to watch this. They can always revisit _that_ later. “We’re here to watch a movie, not make out,” he points out, feeling the soft huff of Eliot’s laugh against his skin. 

“I’m not trying to make out with you,” Eliot lies, blatantly, but settles back against his chest again, facing the movie. “I just think you’re cute.”

They take a break after Spirited Away, trading off the downstairs bathroom and yes, making out a little. It’s hard _not to_ , when Eliot climbs up onto the bed with sparkles in his eyes, crawling on hands and knees towards Quentin like a cheetah, all shoulder blades and teeth. Quentin finds himself happily pounced on, scattered back into the pillows and thoroughly kissed.

“Hi,” he gets out, breathless, when Eliot finally pulls back enough for Quentin to see him, low-lit in the bedside lamp and Quentin’s laptop screen, and he’s– ridiculously beautiful, really, in soft pajama pants and a robe, gaping open at his chest while he hovers over Q. Thoughtless, Quentin slides his hands down Eliot’s long neck, down across his chest to scratch through his chest hair. “Done with the movie night?”

“No,” Eliot says, nosing into kiss Quentin one more time before sitting up, pulling Quentin up by his hands. “I’m into it, I just wanted to kiss you.”

They settle in for the next movie, not back to chest this time but curled together, with Quentin’s head on the ball of Eliot’s shoulder. It’s not, maybe, the _most_ comfortable position, because Eliot’s shoulders are actually kind of boney, and Quentin’s fidgety, not super good at staying still even when he is comfortable. But Eliot doesn’t seem to mind, god, Eliot never seems to mind when Quentin’s being a disaster, and it’s– nice. Eliot smells nice. Quentin throws on Totoro and prepares to get distracted by the skin on Eliot’s neck.

He’d forgotten about the sick parent.

It’s honestly been so long since he watched this movie, Freshman year of undergrad at least, that the whole _premise of the movie_ kind of slipped his mind. But–

It’s fine, he knows the movie has a happy ending, he can– he can handle it. He can handle this. Just– pretend he can’t feel Eliot tense at the mention of the girls’ mother being in the hospital, pretend he doesn’t know what Eliot’s bracing against. Because it’s fine. He’s fine.

He’s fine, until he’s not fine, all of a sudden. 

He doesn’t even notice he’s started crying until Eliot’s saying, softly, “ _Q_ , _baby,_ ” and reaching out to pause the movie. Quentin shakes his head, because– no, he doesn’t– no, if they stop the movie, they’re going to have to _talk_ about it, and Quentin doesn’t– he _can’t_ talk about. 

Pushing out of the curve of Eliot’s body, Quentin draws in on himself, pulling his knees up into his chest, burying his face in his hands to catch all the– everything _leaking out of him_ right now. Because, god, _no_ , the mom in the movie gets better, right, she gets _better_ , she _gets better_ – except _Dad’s not going to get better–_

“Darling,” Eliot’s saying, somewhere far away and much too close, and Quentin almost jumps out of his skin when Eliot’s gentle fingers hook into his messy hair, catching and pulling it back from his wet face. “Darling, breathe, okay. You need to breathe.”

“He’s gonna die, El,” Quentin croaks out, and it’s– fuck. His dad’s going to die. Not... at some nebulous point in the future, either, soon– tangibly soon. “My dad’s– my dad’s– my–” 

“I know,” Eliot says, gently, hands on– Quentin’s shoulders, on his hair, gathering it back and gently– twisting it, so it stays, so Quentin can’t hide behind it anymore, can’t– can’t _not_ see Eliot watching him with– a fair bit of regret, yes, but a lot of– a lot of compassion. A lot of kindness. “I know, sweetheart, I’m _so sorry_.”

Quentin shakes his head, arms tight around his knees, wanting to– scratch, scratch his own arms, dig at the skin with sharp grounding pain but– he’d have to let go to do that and if he does that, he’s going to fly apart. “I’m not ready for this,” he sobs, and fuck, god, fucking _obviously,_ who fucking _is_ , no one, no one has ever been ready for this. At least he’s not a kid, really, at least he’s– he’s– he’s what? _Functional_? Who’s he fucking kidding. “What do I d– how– El, how do I _do this_?”

“Do what?” Eliot asks, gentle, and Quentin wants to fucking– lash out at him, or laugh or– 

“ _Live!_ ” Quentin– sobs, god, he’s– a fucking _trainwreck of a person_ , what is Eliot even doing here, why is he even–

“You’re not going to be alone,” Eliot says, still with that gentle, too-kind voice, and Quentin doesn’t _mean_ to laugh at him but–

“You _really_ can’t promise me that,” Quentin chokes out, and Eliot recoils a little, like Quentin’s words sting him. A little kernel of guilt churns in Quentin’s stomach, but– well, might as well face it now, right? “Eliot, I’m a _piece of shit_ to be around, a lot of the time. And somehow you haven’t noticed yet, but you’re the only one. Even _Julia’s_ figured it out, and god, I put her through enough, I have no idea why it took her this long. But it’s not like I don’t _know_ that I’m terrible, that everyone’s better off without me–”

“Q, that’s _not true,_ ” Eliot says, fervent and, and– _scared_ , fuck. 

Quentin takes a deep breath, and another, and another, and makes himself– draw back, carefully from that ledge. Recognize it, for what it is, even though– even though it _feels_ true, he makes himself stare at it and say– _this is my illness talking, and it’s loud, but I can fight it. I can do hard things._ “I know,” he breathes out, and it’s a lie, maybe, but if he tells the lie enough, he can make it louder than the darkness. Another long breath in, and a wave of tears out– and Eliot reaching for him, careful, hand settling onto his shoulder, cupping his neck and brushing his cheek with his thumb.

“The thing is– I know that my dad would do anything for me, El. He would do anything, he would do– _anything_ for me, I know– that, I know it, because he _has._ He’s– slept in hospital waiting rooms and driven me to college and offered to pay my rent when I fucking– lost my scholarship one semester because I was too fucking depressed to go to class, and talked to me on the phone every night when I couldn’t fucking– stop crying, and he’s done. _Anything_. He doesn’t even fucking like fantasy and he– he raised me so I could _love_ it.” Tears flow rapidly down Quentin’s face, as he gets caught on his own breath. “I’ve always had this person that I know, even when I can’t really– understand him or talk to him or don’t _like_ him, I’ve always had this person– who I _know_ would do anything for me. And I _barely survived_ up until now. So what happens– _next?_ How,” he asks, swallowing, blinking, tears streaming. “– how do I survive the rest?”

“You’re _not_ going to have to do it alone,” Eliot repeats, and before Quentin can protest, Eliot’s talking over him, “I hear what you’re saying, Q, I do, I get it. You don’t feel like I can promise you I’ll stick around, and like– I get it, I wouldn’t believe that promise from me either–”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Quentin protests, weakly, because god, it’s not about _Eliot_ , it’s never been about doubting _Eliot’s_ ability to be loyal.

“– but, baby, _I’m_ not all you’ve got, either. So many more people care about you than you can see. You are _so much easier_ to care about than you think you are. And– yeah. Yeah, okay, your dad is going to die. It’s– it’s fucking terrible, it’s _awful_ , and I would– fucking cut off a leg to spare you it, but– There’s two things we can do right now: make the most of the time you have, and prepare for what comes after.”

“I’ve been trying,” Quentin breathes out, feeling another exhausted wave of tears leak out of him.

“I know,” Eliot agrees, “I know why you’ve been here this summer. But _you_ need to get, _really get_ , that not staying here longer has to be part of the second half. You need to be where you can _see_ that you have a support network, and work on making it stronger.”

“How do I do that?” Quentin asks, dully, sarcastic, and Eliot sighs.

“I think you need to talk to Julia,” he says, resigned, and it sets Quentin’s hackles up, because Julia has made it pretty fucking clear she’s not _interested_ in talking, but– “I know, baby, it’s easier to dig your heels in than reach out but– I think you’re gonna to need her.”

“I don’t know if I can do it,” Quentin admits, voice small, feeling– _lost_.

Eliot quirks a smile at him– gentle, kind– _fuck_. “I’m just gonna tell you that you don’t have to do it alone again, so like– brace for that shit.”

“God,” Quentin breathes out on a laugh, scrubbing his hands over his face. “God, okay. Now?”

“If you feel up for it.” Eliot shrugs, hand sliding down to take Quentin’s, lacing their fingers together. “There’s no expiration date on the offer. But– it might make you feel better.”

“I doubt it,” Quentin sighs, but– squeezes back, Eliot’s strong, broad hand. “Okay... okay.”

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

He settles with Eliot's solid chest against his back, thighs around his hips, arms around his waist. Eliot, breath soft against the back of his neck– steady. _You are not alone here_. The phone rings, and rings, and he's just about sure she's going to send him to voicemail, when there's a click and a muffled thump and then a cautious, "Hey, Q."

If he wasn't all fucking cried out, exhausted and wrung out, Quentin probably couldn't do this. But now, he's got nothing left inside to hack up, so he just– lays back in Eliot's arms, and answers back: "Hey Jules."

"Is everything alright?" 

Which, okay fair– it's what, 10pm on a Thursday, a week before they're going back to school, and they haven't talked since the 4th, have they? But– "No, not really," Quentin breathes out, fucking– eyes getting wet again, nose clogged, god he's going to be so fucking dehydrated after this. Eliot hums quietly, vibrations Quentin feels through his chest more than hears, and nuzzles his nose softly against Quentin's hair. Supportive, steady. "I mean, nothing's alright, really, like, at all. My dad's dying, Jules, and my oldest friend isn't talking to me, and I think– I'm going to _need you_ in the next couple months, and whatever's not. Not working with us, I need to fix it. I don't know how but I need to fix it."

"I haven't been getting the impression you need me very much anymore," Julia says, cooly.

Quentin's heart sinks. "Come on, Jules, that's not– that's not _fair_. You just decided that you didn't like my friends, like, arbitrarily–"

"Your friends, the hedonistic fuckboy and his BFF, the asshole Traveler who almost got you kicked out of school, the hedge who only shows up to class when she feels like and Niffin Girl who you fucked at Brakebills South. Jesus, Q, why would I have a bad impression of them."

"When did you become so _judgemental_?" Quentin hisses, hoping– _god_ – that Eliot can't hear her. "Was it before or after your 6 months of buying Aderall from your roommate at Columbia and fucking James's Lacrosse teammates? We get to grad school and suddenly _Julia Wicker_ has never done _anything wrong._ "

"Fuck you, Quentin."

"Also, it's not like you were exactly _trying hard_ to get to know them better, where you? I had a fucking– _meltdown_ in the middle of a Welters tournament, it's not like you didn't _know_ shit was going on."

"The last time I saw you before that I had to _drag you buy your dick_ back onto your antidepressants while Eliot Waugh fucking sat there smirking and talking about his _recreational drug habit_ –"

Eliot shifts, and god, Jesus, Quentin reaches back to catch his hand before he can go anywhere, slide their fingers together and hold on tight. "You don't know him," Quentin cuts in, sharp, and then– takes a deep breath, breathes out. Eliot's lips brush softly against his neck, and Quentin tilts his head to the side, offering his throat so Eliot's mouth can rest there, _perfect_.

"That's the kind of shit people say about their abusive boyfriends, Quentin," Julia says, matter of fact, and Quentin's stomach rolls.

"God, _no_ , Julia. You _don't know him_. He's– my _dad_ likes him, he's spent half the summer with us. He's smart, and kind, and good to me–" Eliot's teeth nip into Quentin's neck, a little love bite, arms squeezing around him, and Quentin relaxes back into them. Solid. Stable. "I wanted to– drop out, basically, and he talked me out of it. He's been– he's been good for me, Julia, he really has."

"Why where you– you can't _drop out."_

"Yes, that has been made abundantly clear," Quentin snaps back. "If for no other reason than that I don't want to lose my memories of this year. But Julia– I feel like you're not getting how bad things are, with Dad."

There's a couple of beats of silence, then she says, voice closer to the Julia he remembers than her hard, brittle bite: "Then tell me. How bad are they, Q?"

So he does. 

It all comes spilling out, the summer of doctor's appointments and memory slips, ER trips and medication adjustments, vomiting spells and dizziness. "He's going to need full-time care, before the end, and– Eliot's right, I can't do it. I can't do it, but I'm going to have to figure out how to make it happen, and also–" He stalls out, and fuck, he's crying again, tears down washing wet down his face while Eliot nuzzles at his cheek, kisses it softly, hand rubbing on his trembling belly, "– also I'm going to have to figure out how to come to terms with that fact that there's going to _be_ an e-end and– I'm sorry for whatever I did to push you away, Julia, I'm _sorry."_

It's just kind of more crying, after that. Head aching, shaking in Eliot's arms, he loses the trail of coherent words, breathless sobs. "Q," Julia says, down the phone, and she sounds worried now. "You didn't do anything wrong. C’mon, we just drifted apart a little. You're right, I didn't try very hard to– it just seemed like you had new people, and I'm not... I guess I'm not used to you making friends without me. I wasn't sure what to do about it. It honestly felt like you didn’t need me anymore–”

“Jules, I didn’t _need_ you, but I _like_ you– I _want_ to hang out with you. But then all that ever happened when we did hang out was that you rag on my friends and you never asked about Dad, and– You didn’t even remember that I’d broken up with Alice, Julia, and I _know_ I told you. But– I dunno. I’m sorry I hurt you. I kind of can’t stand you being mad at me.”

“I was mad at you after the 4th,” Julia admits, quietly, and Quentin swallows. “You just ripped into me, and then disappeared. And maybe I deserved it, maybe I could have tried a little harder to be a better friend, not let go as much as I did. But– come on, we're still us."

He can't respond, beyond a nod, which is not– helpful, really. "Yeah?" he manages to choke out, and Julia hums.

“Yeah, Q. I’m sorry, too. I got a little spiteful, I guess.”

“S’alright,” Quentin mumbles, breath hitching. “Sorry I made you feel like I didn’t give a shit or whatever.”

"You’ve never not given a shit about anything in your life, Quentin Coldwater,” She says, her voice a little lighter, a little more like _his_ _Jules_. “You are literally full of shit.”

“Thanks,” he sighs, dry, rubbing his hand up over his face, as another wave of tears spill out.

“Are you alone right now?"

"No," Quentin hiccups, squeezing Eliot's hand in his. Another soft kiss to his temple, as squeeze of the arms hold him. "No, Eliot's here."

"Good," Julia says, and she sounds like she means it. "I really am sorry, too, Q. What can I do to help fix this?”

"Get to know my friends?" Quentin breathes out on a laugh. "I think you'd like them, if you gave them a chance. Margo's a huge nerd, like maybe more than you, and Eliot's like– so smart and so powerful and _so good_ at taking care of people, he cares so much."

"Lies," Eliot whispers, a breath against Quentin's ear, and Quentin smiles, just a bit, nuzzling back against him.

"Kady's a badass and Alice is, like, terrifyingly smart, and Penny... is a person I know, I guess." Julia laughs, and Eliot shakes his head against Quentin's. "No, he's fine, he's like– weirdly loyal, in a ' _only I get to call you a loser'_ kinda way. I think you'd like them. But like– you don't have to. I don't _need_ you to be friends with my friends, but I still need you to be my friend." He pauses, feeling Eliot's breath against his skin, the warmth and safety of him. "Well, maybe Eliot. I think I need you and Eliot to be at least civil."

"I'll play nice, and not even invite her to any orgies," Eliot whispers, against Quentin's ear. 

Quentin rolls his eyes, as Julia says, "Yeah, I can do that. I reserve the right to break his knees if he hurts you."

"He would break his own knees if he hurt me," Quentin says, dryly, squeezing Eliot's hand in his. "Don't tell him I told you but he beats himself up a lot about the idea that he _might_ hurt me. So."

"You're ruining my reputation as someone who does not care about anything," Eliot says loudly enough for the phone to pick it up, and Quentin sighs. Rests his cheek against Eliot's. 

"Babe, you care _so much_."

"Yeah," Eliot agrees, quiet again, just for him, lips against Quentin's temple; "I do, darling."

"You two are cute," Julia says, and she sounds– warm and surprised, and Quentin sighs, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you this summer, Q. I'll be better, I promise. You can talk to me about your dad or Eliot or– anything, school–"

"Maybe not school," Quentin says, self-conscious, all of a sudden. "You're like– blowing me out of the water, with school."

"Jesus, Q, I don't _give a shit_ about your class performance."

"Seemed like you did," Quentin says, defensive. "When you kept telling me to party less."

"I was _jealous_ ," Julia says, and then she's– laughing? "God, Q, I– Knowledge kids never have parties, there's like three of us and it might _damage the books_ –"

"You– You could have come to our parties!" Behind him, Eliot makes a deeply skeptical noise, and Quentin twists around to glare at him. "You shut up, you spent half the year putting your dick in another guy–"

"Hey! _You_ were with someone else too! And I genuinely didn't know putting my dick in you was an _option_ before that."

"Because you're a _moron._ Julia's invited to all our parties." Julia's laughing, down the phone line, and it's such a familiar sound it makes Quentin feel weightless. 

"Of course she is _now,_ " Eliot grumbles, nuzzling back into the hug, and Quentin relaxes again. 

"Good to know," Julia agrees, still laughing a little, then, "Fuck, Q, I really missed you."

"Yeah. Me too, actually." 

"Tell your dad I say hi?" she asks, tentative, and Quentin swallows around the upsurge of fear and sadness. "I'll– maybe if you're going to be going back to visit, I can come with you sometime. To give Eliot a break, or if he needs to work on his thesis or even like– go with the two of you, maybe."

"Yeah, maybe. Just– I don't want to lose my dad and you, too."

"I don't want that either," Julia says, quiet. Behind him, Eliot hums a little, nuzzling against the sensitive skin at the base of Quentin's hairline. "We should get dinner the first night of the semester."

"There's going to be a party," Eliot says, loudly, and then softer, almost a little embarrassed against Quentin's neck. "Margo's already planning it."

"Well, you should come to the party, then," Quentin suggests, "I mean, I'll just be, you know– _me_ , through the whole thing. So we can catch up. Let Eliot actually play host without me stuck to him."

"I can do mid-party catch up," Julia says, at the same time Eliot says: "I like having you stuck to me," softly, and fuck, Quentin wants to kiss him, is suddenly _unbearably_ grateful for him. "But yeah, she should come."

"I'll see you in a week," Julia says, sounding amused.

The warmth of it lingers after she hangs up, as Quentin lets himself go limp, flop down sideways on the bed with a huff. He lands with Eliot’s knee digging into his ribs, of course, and Eliot huffs, wriggling around until he can extricate himself from Quentin’s body. Exhaustion bleeds into every fiber of his being, god, he fucking _hates_ crying and he does it _so much–_

“Hey,” Eliot murmurs, bracing up over Quentin, hand resting– gentle– in the center of Quentin’s chest. Rubbing over his heart.

“Hey you,” Quentin chokes out, through his own congestion, snotty and gross. “That was, um– thanks. For being here.”

“Of course,” Eliot says softly, thumb rubbing a circle on Quentin’s chest. His hand is a warm, steady, weight and Quentin closes his eyes, concentrating on breathing, on the way his chest presses up on Eliot’s hand every time he takes a breath. It’s steadying, grounding, and when Quentin rolls over towards Eliot, so he can push his forehead against Eliot’s knee, the hand slides with him down onto his back. Up, gently, until he’s rubbing the tension at the base of Quentin’s neck, then stroking the hair back off his forehead. “You’re so fucking brave, Q. I’m so proud of you.”

“Didn’t do that much,” Quentin mumbles in protest, uncomfortable, because, god, if he can’t make a _phone call_ –

“It was a lot,” Eliot argues, gentle, thumb rubbing right at the place on Quentin’s temple that’s throbbing from all the crying. Quentin rubs his nose against Eliot’s knee, warm through the soft fabric of his pajama pants. “Are you feeling okay, darling?”

“Feel like I need some water,” Quentin admits, and Eliot laughs out a breath.

“I can do that for you.”

Quentin’s mostly pulled himself together by the time Eliot comes back from the kitchen with a plastic cup of water, which Quentin downs most of in a couple swallows. “Wanna finish the movie?” He asks, voice raw from all the talking and crying. He clears his throat a little, while Eliot gives him a skeptical look.

“We really don’t have to, baby.”

“No, I– I want to. It has a happy ending, I promise.” Quentin shrugs, folding his arms around his knees, watching as Eliot climbs back up on the bed. It already feels so– so fucking _right_ , sharing a bed with him. Should it, after 4 months? Quentin’s never been great at sleeping alone, but all the other bits of sharing space have never come easy to him. Not like they feel like they do, with Eliot.

Eliot, who’s bullying his way into Quentin’s arms, just barely saving the water cup before it goes tumbling across the bed. “Cuddle me,” Eliot demands, making Quentin laugh which– was probably the point, really.

“Yes sir,” Quentin mutters into Eliot’s curls, arms sliding around his chest. He’s warm and heavy, like– like a weight blanket, or something. Just– solid, like he’s pressing Quentin’s wandering soul back into his body. “You gotta start the movie then.”

“Think I can handle that,” Eliot agrees, as Quentin drops his face down into the crook of Eliot’s neck. 

The happy ending might feel more like a fantasy than like real life, at the moment, but with Eliot in his arms, Quentin can at least enjoy the story.

____

People start trickling back to campus a few days before classes officially resume.

There's a party, of course, to kick off the start of the new semester, because it's important to remind everyone that the Physical Kids reign supreme. Half the school showing up to their first lessons hungover is just the way it's done, of course. Margo's shouldered most of the burden of party planning, this year, and Eliot will have to make it up to her sometime soon, but he's been distracted by, well– this.

Waking up on the last day of summer, with an armful of lovely pliant boy. Q's awake, and all silky skin under Eliot's hands, wide brown eyes and thoughtful frown on his soft pink mouth.

"Hmm, hello," Eliot mutters, blinking, and Q smiles, just a little thing, reflexive. "What are you thinking about so hard?"

"Over-thinking," Quentin admits, and then wriggles– _closer_ , somehow, so he can tangle their legs together. "I can't believe the summer's over. But I also sort of can't believe it took this long?"

"Yeah," Eliot agrees, reaching out to hook a stray piece of Quentin's hair with his finger, tuck it back into place. He's so fucking lovely. _And still mine_ , after four months. A record. "Fuck time, honestly."

"Mmm, haven't started Horomancy, yet," Quentin drawls, stretching a little, then wriggling– fuck, _even closer_ – until Eliot can't actually see his face anymore, tucked in against Eliot's neck. "But I'll report back once I've learned how to fuck time, I promise."

Eliot snorts, fingers slipping through Quentin's hair just enough to nudge him back, so Eliot can– _mmm_ yes– kiss him, slow and sweet and a little sour with the morning. Kiss him until it loses any taste at all, until they're both a little breathless, Eliot's hand in his hair and on his neck, Quentin's fingers tangled in Eliot's chest hair and tugging, just a little.

"We should probably get your room set up today," Eliot says, some time later, once his mouth is free. He has two handfuls of ass and he squeezes admiringly, just to watch Q wiggle a little on top of him.

"Counter argument: I'm never going to be in there and this is our last day to be naked in bed all day."

"It's a good counter argument," Eliot admits, because, well– It's not like they'll _never_ get this chance again, but it honestly might take until the winter holidays, if dissertation research fucks Eliot as hard as he's expecting it to. "But we don't actually have all day. If I don't go help Margo this afternoon, she might literally hex my dick off."

"Mmm," Quentin hums a little, dropping his face down onto Eliot's chest. "So that means we need to spend the morning unpacking why?"

"Because I'm not supposed to let you stay in bed all day," Eliot says, softly, heart in his throat. It's– not easy, yet, to know how much is too much for him to push with this. There's still a little bit of fear, that it's– not his place. But Q just makes a face, and sticks his nose back into Eliot's chest hair, which, like– sure, okay. Fuck, Eliot _likes him so much,_ it's probably– it's probably more like love, at this point.

Which is too much, really, for Eliot to handle the day before classes start, his stupid traitor heart racing in his chest as he stuffs the thought in a locker and steals its lunch money.

"I also have to get some books," Quentin admits, breaking Eliot out of the high-pitched whining ringing through his brain. "If I do it today I should be able to beat the scramble."

"Nerd," Eliot volleys back, and gets Quentin's teeth in his pec for it. Bitey little thing, Jesus– not that Eliot's really _complaining_ , not that he ever fucking complains about Quentin's oral fixation. But still– "You can do that while I help Margo, maybe. Unless you want to go home?"

Quentin's quiet, for a second, cheek resting over Eliot's beating heart, before he sighs and– slides both arms up under Eliot's shoulders, hugging him. "I am home," he says, quietly, and that locker in Eliot's brain rattles, loudly, as the thought tries to escape again. "I don't– I don't want to treat the portal like a revolving door, El. If I'm going to be here, I need to _be here_. It's good to be able to get there quickly, but– if I think about it as just a door to New Jersey that I can go through whenever, then I'm going to spend all my time feeling guilty that I'm not going back every second I can, but I also– _can't do that_."

"I know," Eliot promises, smoothing his hand up and down the skin between Quentin's shoulder blades, feeling the muscles relax and unbunch under his hand. "You know I agree. You don't need to justify it to me."

"I need to justify it to myself," Quentin sighs, then he's rolling away, onto his back on the bed next to Eliot. Despite the last 10 minutes of trying to convince him to get up, Eliot feels bereft without him. "Alright. Let's get up."

It still takes an hour, of course, for Eliot to shower and bully Quentin in after him, Eliot shaving in front of the spell-defogged mirror while Quentin gets perfunctorily clean, with his terrible two-in-one shampoo and conditioner, and probably uses way more of Eliot's nice body wash than he should. He ends up perched on the closed toilet in jeans and t-shirt, watching Eliot arrange and spell-set his hair, apply eyeliner.

"Is this fun for you?" Eliot asks Q's reflection in the mirror, blink against the heavy feeling of make-up on his waterline. "Watching me put my face on?"

"I like your face," Quentin replies, smiling a little. _Rattle, rattle, rattle_. "I don't know. It's like– alien to me, but you're good at it. I like watching you do things you're good at."

"Ah, competency kink, got it," Eliot agrees knowingly, then leans over for a kiss because– fuck, why not?

The rest of the morning is spent unpacking Quentin's shit in his room, which is a pretty simple process with magic involved. They make the bed in about five seconds with a cooperative spell that leaves Eliot's fingers tingling, and the good, steady, solidness of Quentin's magic hooked through his breastbone. He behaves himself, though, doesn't pin Quentin down on his dull gray Target sheets and have his way with him. No, instead he takes it upon himself to start working on the wards in the room, careful of how the spells will interact with the anchor for the portal. A simple protection charm while Quentin half-heartedly throws clothes into drawers seemingly at random, which Eliot refrains from commenting on in favor of setting up the spell that will keep anyone but a resident of the house out of Q's room. It's looser and more lenient than the wards he has on his own space– but who is he to know who Quentin will and won't want in his room? Then a simple silencing charm, to keep noise in and outside noise muffled, while Quentin started unpacking and organizing his books.

The real draw of this room, Eliot knows, after being next to Margo's, is the bookcase. Set into the corner of the room by the closet, it's big and solid, transfigured from the shitty particular board into some solid hardwood beast of a thing by a physical kid long since gone. Q's already set up camp in front of it, box of books next to him and books spread out in a little semi-circle as he looks at the spines.

"How are we organizing these?" Eliot asks, trailing his hand softly along the back of Quentin's neck as he picks his way through the books, dropping down to sit with him in the only available space.

" _We're_ not," Quentin says distractedly, reaching out to take the book from under Eliot's knee without looking up. " _I'm_ organizing them, _you're_ going to go help Margo."

"Mmm, or I can hand you books, and then we can go marvel in disgust at the dining hall offerings and lament that all the food in the kitchen is for the party," Eliot offers back instead, picking up a book and looking at the spine. _The Mists of Avalon._ That could be work or pleasure, honestly. "So what's the system?"

Quentin sighs dramatically, and Eliot bites back the urge to kiss his dimples. "Text books on the bottom. Above that, non-fiction by subject and then by author. Above that, fiction by genre and then by author, except for rare editions, which go on the top, with– can you show me that preservation spell again?"

In fact, Eliot can.

Quentin's putting the final touches on the last fiction row when his door bursts open, and Kady Orloff-Diaz strolls in, looking Burning-Man Chique as ever. "Quinn and I are going to raid the bookstore, you're coming," she informs Quentin, then gives Eliot a kind of bro-nod that he never knows what to do with when he receives it from actual bros. "I'd ask how your summer was but I assume you just got dicked down the whole time, so I'm not gonna. Wheels up now, Coldwater."

Then she drops onto the bed to glare at him, so– Eliot watches Quentin blush, delighted, and then watches with even more delight as Penny tries to follow Kady into the room and bounces off the wards Eliot cast. Residents only.

"– the fuck?" he mutters, just loud enough to be heard from the hallway, and Eliot snorts, turning back to Q.

"Looks like I'll be going to help Margo after all. Don't let them bully you too much."

"Because I'm historically great at that," Quentin returns under his breath, but he leans in for a kiss, soft and warm and sweet despite Kady's showy groans, so– Everything's as it should be.

Most of the groundwork for the party is in fact already done. Margo's taken care of supply acquisition, spending heavily now with the idea that any alcohol left over from this part could be consumed in the coming weeks. Gone are the plastic cups and bonfire of the end-of-year party; now was the time to remind everyone that style _and_ substances was the Physical Kid way. So Eliot spends about an hour re-charming all of the crystal wear in the cottage to make it extra durable, a simple enchantment but one that had gone somewhat lax over the summer.

He finds Margo mass-chilling cases of white wine behind the bar, the cryomancy spells sliding out of her fingers like water. Moving around her easily, fingers brushing against the backs of her shoulders, he starts arganging and preparing his bar supplies, making little notes to himself as he does about what different magical flares he’s been experimenting with over the summer. 

“Alright, so,” Margo starts, all business, dropping to sit on one of the crates of red. “Who do we have to worry about bringing un-accounted for substances to this party, hmm?”

“Hard to say, yet,” Eliot muses, turning to look at her, leaning his hands back on the bar. “Maybe those psychic twins? They always have weird spells. Didn’t you fuck one of them?”

“I might have fucked both of them? I’m not honestly sure,” Margo admits, disinterested, and Eliot feels a swell of fondness for her that makes his chest feel tight. “Hard to know who’s going to be filling Hoberman’s shoes now that he’s gone. I can’t believe we need to get a new weed guy.”

“Are you telling me that Hoberman _doesn’t_ strike you as the type to hang around his old school selling weed?” Eliot asks, lightly, and at least it makes Margo laugh.

“I mean, you make a good point.” She nods, clearly having decided something, clapping her hands together. “Okay, so. You’re in charge of that, go poke around the Naturalists, see who’s got what, who’s bringing what.”

“Um, pass,” Eliot says, wrinklinking his nose in distaste. The fucking Treehouse always smells musty, like everyone there is growing mushrooms. Which, you know, they probably are.

“Your other option is to stay here and wrangle Todd,” Margo says, sweetly, blinking at Eliot with her big Bambi eyes.

“Fuck you, bitch. Treehouse it is.”

So Eliot spends a good couple hours playing nice with the Nature kids. There’s a pretty big contingent of Naturalist second years, a lot of Quentin’s cohort seems to have gone that way, but no one seems to be standing out from the pack yet in terms of new or interesting use of mind-altering plants. Still, he extends a couple key invitations, getting on the right side of the right people, which is enough for him to count the afternoon as a win. There are still lighting effects to cast, after all, and a wardrobe change to make. 

He finds Quentin later once the party is in full swing, tucked away on the window seat with Julia Wicker and talking animatedly with both hands, empty wine glass on the window sill next to him. And that just won’t do, will it, so Eliot snatches up a bottle of red wine, making his way over to them as his fingers run through the motions of an uncorking spell, timing it perfectly so the pop the cork announces his arrival. 

“Refill,” he offers, extending the bottle towards them as Quentin smiles up at him– fuck, _dimples_ – and nods.

“Thanks,” he says softly, scooting towards Julia a little so there’s space for Eliot to tuck in next to him. Which he does, watching Julia’s guarded features relax into a little smile. Quentin’s gaze darts between them, clearly fidgety and nervous, and Eliot– fucking _hates_ being something that makes Quentin uncomfortable, honestly. So he just settles his hand on Quentin’s thigh and smiles, with all the charm he has. He can do this. He can convince one 24-year-old girl to like him.

“What did I interrupt?” he asks, lazily summoning himself a glass and pouring some of the wine into it, before offering the bottle to Julia. She takes it, topping up her own and settling it on the sill.

“Q was just telling me about London,” she explains, nodding towards Quentin, who nods, smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Sounds like you guys had a good time.”

“Yeah, we did,” Eliot agrees, because short of that– one single dark cloud of a day, it had been maybe the best two weeks of the summer. “You tell her about visiting the Globe yet?”

Quentin grins, shaking his head and turning back to Julia. “So Eliot’s a huge nerd–”

“Hey!” He protests, because really, being called a nerd by someone who bought TARDIS socks in London is really– more than Eliot’s dignity can bear, but Quentin ignores him, plowing on.

“– and he’s been to a play at The Globe, but he’s never been like– inside, or backstage or whatever you call it. And they sell tours, but they’re expensive and you have to buy them in advance, so like, there was pretty much no way it’s going to happen, right?”

“Context clues tell me you found a way,” Julia fills in, but Eliot’s not watching her.

No, Eliot’s watching Quentin, his expressive face and wild hands, the way his hair keeps slipping out from behind his ears as he talks. His bright eyes dance while he tells their story of light crime in the hallowed halls of Shakespeare’s Globe, excitable and exuberant. The low light of the party highlights the line of his jaw, throwing the soft secret skin of his neck into tempting shadow, and Eliot– loves him.

He lets the thought sit in his chest for a moment, breathe the air of the party, before putting it more gently back into its locker.

“You didn’t. You did not go on stage, I don’t believe you,” Julia protests, and Eliot snaps back into focus.

“Well I didn’t get to _stay there_ ,” he aquessess with a light shrug, while Quentin starts giggling. “Luckily I am very charming and very good at pretending I only speak Dutch.”

“ _Do you_ speak Dutch?”

“Not even a little,” Eliot tells her cheerfully, as Quentin lists into his side, solid compact little weight. Eliot looks down at him, and then– has to kiss him, just has too. Warm and sweet and deep, a slow melting kiss that leaves Quentin a little breathless and blinking at him, little comma writing into the side of his cheek. It grows into a full happy smile, and something warm blooms in Eliot’s chest, as he leans in and kisses the tip of Quentin’s nose. “The play was amazing though.”

“Yeah, it was,” Quentin agrees, before turning back to Julia. “Oh! I need to tell you about this little apothecary we found, it was like something _straight_ out of Harry Potter–”

Eliot looks away from him, smiling, surveying out across the room. It’s a good party, everyone seems to be having a good time. Energy sparkles around the space and okay, maybe it’s– a _little_ tame, by their standards, no one’s dancing naked on the tables or passed out on the floor. But people are chatting, laughing and smiling, catching up– exactly what a welcome-back party should be. There can be ragers and blow-outs later; now is simply an opportunity to find oneself again amongst friends, relax, brace for the oncoming storm.

On the other side of the room, Margo catches his eye where she’s chatting with a girl he doesn’t know, a healer, maybe in Quentin’s year, with a very low cut shirt and quite a lot going on under it. Grinning, he gives Margo a subtly impressed nod, which she accepts with a wink and a smile, and it feels– right, somehow. It feels normal. Like they are finally, _finally_ , back on balance– Margo and Eliot, party king and queen of Brakebills, but like– growing, as people. Who’d have thought?

Quentin leans back into Eliot’s side, and Eliot focuses in on him, sliding his arm easily around Quentin’s waist. It’s probably too early in the evening for him to tug Quentin up into his lap– he’s going to have to get up and return to the bar before too long, and that’ll only get harder with Quentin squirming against him– but it’s still nice to be close to him. Smiling a little, Eliot noses in to kiss at the soft skin behind Quentin’s ear, which earns him a giggle and a blush.

Q comes with him, when he does eventually head back to the bar, leaving Julia to fall into conversation with Kady and Alice. It might be half an ex-girlfriend-dodging-move, honestly, but Eliot’s not going to complain when Quentin perches up on the counter of the bar, socked foot brushing Eliot’s calf every time he swings his leg.

“How are you holding up?” Eliot asks, checking in, because well– he wants Quentin to have a good time, but he also just– wants him to be _okay_ , more than anything else.

But Q just dimples at him, sweetly, like he doesn’t know he’s turning all of Eliot’s insides into melty goo. “I’m good. Catching up with Julia was nice. I think she actually is making an effort, so– I do appreciate that. I can meet her where she is.” At Eliot’s non-committal hum, Quentin reaches out, catching Eliot’s arm and tugging a little. He has to set down the cocktail he’s working on, but does, allowing himself to be pulled over into Quentin’s space. “Thanks.”

“What are you thanking me for?” Eliot asks low enough that it won’t carry over the music. Looking down into Quentin’s lovely face, god– Eliot wants to kiss him, probably, but also maybe just– look at him, forever. Which, okay, maybe he’s a little drunk, but Quentin’s still looking up at him with those big brown eyes, soft curls in the corner of his mouth, so– how can Eliot be blamed, really, for being distracted? Especially when Quentin’s sliding his palms flat up Eliot’s chest, curling around the back of his neck.

“Playing nice with Julia? Checking on me? Fuck, I don’t know,” Quentin huffes out, a pink tinge dusting his cheeks, just visible in the dim colored lights. “Just– this whole summer, maybe. For everything.”

“It was a team effort,” Eliot points out, heart in his throat, but Quentin just– tilts his head, nodding.

“Thanks for being on my team, then.”

“Well, that’s easy. I’ll always be on your team,” Eliot says, and it’s a shockingly easy promise to make, with all the messy feelings rattling around in the empty lockers of his brain. But– he’d meant it, what he said to Ted weeks ago: Quentin was his best friend, and that’s not going to change. Q just smiles in response, tilting his face up, but Eliot’s already kissing him before he even gets all the way through the motion. It starts off soft and sweet and quickly takes a swerve towards filthy with Quentin’s wandering hands sliding into Eliot’s back pockets, his sweet soft mouth falling open in invitation, perfect for Eliot to cup his jaw and just slowly lick in against his teeth, a slow roll of heat through Eliot’s body as he pushes up into Quentin’s space, feeling him _everywhere_ –

There’s a clatter, as their movements send an ice scoop tumbling to the floor, and Eliot pulls away to retrieve it, feeling more than a little hot under the collar. Quentin, for his part, looks– embarrassed, but also a little pleased with himself, which is a kind of lethal combination, really.

“I need to make drinks,” Eliot tells him, a little kiss-drunk and stupid. 

“Mmhm,” Q agrees, giving Eliot’s ass a friendly little squeeze before letting go, leaning back so Eliot can move out of his space. He doesn’t want to, suddenly, but, well– there’s not exactly a shortage, is there, of time he can spend kissing Quentin? Maybe just– one more, short and sweet, a tender little thing. Quentin watches him as he goes back to the bar, settling in again to muddle drinks. “Is it okay if I crash in your room, whenever I’m done with this?”

“Of course,” Eliot agrees, because, fuck, as far as he’s concerned, Q doesn’t even need to ask. 

Later, much later, after Quentin drifts away and back and away again, after dancing in the middle of the living room with Margo, sharing a pipe with her, feeling vibrant and alive with her– after the party winds down and ‘ _late’_ becomes _‘early’_ – Eliot slips into his room as quietly as he can. Luckily neither he nor Q have any ungodly early classes first thing on Monday, but Q still has to be in class by 10. Which, for him, means being awake by 9:30, but– still, Eliot should try to let him stay asleep if he is.

The bedside lamp is on, as Eliot slips into the room, but Q’s not awake, clearly passed out propped up in a pile of pillows with an open book on his chest. Eliot stands against the closed doorway for a minute, just– looking at him, how ridiculous and dear he is. Eliot wants– he wants to go bury his face in Quentin’s neck, roll around with his head in Q’s lap until until Quenitn buries his strong fingers in Eliot’s curls, wants to _kiss him and kiss him and kiss him_ until they’re both breathless–

Instead, he bends over and takes off his own shoes, and only stumbles a very little bit. Exhausted and tipsy, he’s still with it enough to go through the motions of getting undressed and scrubbing up enough to not wake up feeling truly disgusting. Then all that’s left is– taking Quentin’s book out of his slack fingers, carefully tucking in his bookmark (a playing card, of course it is– Jack of Hearts) into the open page and setting it on the nightstand. 

Quentin stirs, a little, as Eliot climbs into bed. “– time is it?” he mumbles, rolling off his mound of pillows and over, until he’s– settling, warm and sleepy, in Eliot’s arms, head tucked under Eliot’s chin.

“Don’t worry about it,” Eliot murmurs, reaching for telekinesis to flick the lamp off, coating them in welcoming darkness. “Go back to sleep, Q.”

“I miss you,” Quentin mutters, nuzzling a little against Eliot’s throat, tender sweet thing, and Eliot– smiles, a little, as he settles in to sleep.

“No need,” he promises, palm sliding up and down Quentin’s back, all warm silky skin. Even though the wards on the room block out sound, there’s a _feeling_ to the cottage, a _life_ to it, now that it’s full again. Last year, he’d mourned the end of summer, because how could he– how could he _know_ , really, that in 3 days time a lost little first year with an ill-fitting suit jacket and floppy hair would stumble his way across the lawn towards Eliot, and look at him with the kind of stunned bewilderment that usually meant _‘innocent straight boy_ ’. How was Eliot of a year ago to know that everything, _everything_ , was about to change?

“El,” Quentin sighs against his chest, here, in the year 2016, and it’s not– not like it’s the start of a thought, just. Just like he wanted to say Eliot’s name.

“Sleep, darling,” Eliot repeats, nosing down to press a kiss to Quentin’s hair, feel him settle and unwind in Eliot’s arms. Who knows what this year will bring? 

Whatever it is, Eliot thinks, half formed, as he settles in to sleep with Quentin’s warm, dense little body cuddled up close– whatever it is, Eliot’s not going to have to face it alone, not when he’s got Margo on one side and Quentin on the other. 

Content, he drifts to sleep, as the last dregs of summer night fade out. 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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